#Please i have so much wool but it from me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

em1i2a3 · 2 months ago

Text

Embrace

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After a year hiatus from dating, you decide to get back on the apps and begin the search again for the one…Only to find out that the pool of guys in New York has extremely slim pickings. Every time you return from a date though, Bob and a glass of wine are always waiting to hear the latest story from your dating chronicles.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and just a little small hint of Angst (like a dusting of angst…a little peppercorn of angst lol), Reader and Bob have an established friendship and they are super close, Bob just wants the reader to be happy…But I mean…At the same time he’s a bit jealous of course, Swearing, Talks about relationships and awkward interactions with guys lol.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (…please protect yourselves, I beg of thee), Sensual/Super frickin soft looooove makin’ lol, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, Biting, Scratching, Leaving Marks by accident but kind of on purpose? Heheheheh. It’s been a while since reader has had sex, Worshipping/Praising Kink,

Author’s Note: Thank you Anon for requesting this! I went off the damn rails with this one because I really loved the concept, and thought it would be great to put a really cute little twist to it! I truly enjoy writing this type of stuff, it’s just so scrumptious for my brain. Hope y’all enjoy <3

Word Count: 16,826

The cold bit at your knees the second you stepped out of the restaurant.

You wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, pulling your jacket closed as you shifted your weight from heel to heel. It was a nice jacket–mid-thigh length, fitted, soft beige wool with a classic belt–but it didn’t do much to protect your bare legs from the peak fall weather that plagued New York. You were wearing a navy-blue satin slip dress that skimmed your thighs and clung in all the ways the mirror at the compound had promised would be flattering. You had paired it with a delicate rose gold necklace and matching heels that now dangled from your fingers–replaced with the fold out flats you always brought. The outfit had felt elegant when you left earlier tonight…Now it just felt cold.

You were standing a few feet away from your date, Jeremy–the man who insisted on dining at Le Pavillon because he ‘had a connection there’ and claimed it was ‘just upscale enough to set the mood.’ He was scrolling absently through his phone, occasionally glancing toward the street like he was trying to manifest his ride faster.

You shifted again, arms crossed under your chest. Your Uber was three minutes away…Three minutes too long.

The dinner itself had been passable. The wine was decent, and the risotto was rich enough to almost make up for the conversation. But…He had a habit of interrupting. Correcting. Smiling too long. You insisted on splitting the bill after he made a smug comment about being ‘happy to invest in a beautiful woman’–and he had not taken it well. You could feel the awkward tension humming between you now, like static off an unplugged cord.

His phone buzzed and he quickly glanced down at it, “That’s me!” He exclaimed, stuffing it into his coat pocket. He turned toward you, giving the kind of grin that probably worked better in dim lighting, “I’ll text you, yeah? We’ll set up something for next week.

You forced a tight, polite smile, “Sure…” He leaned in for a hug, and you let him–quick, loose, impersonal. He smelled like cheap cigars, chlorine, and headache inducing aftershave. When he pulled back, you already had your phone out.

The second his back turned and he slipped into his rideshare, your whole posture deflated–your shoulders dropped, your jaw unclenched, and the carefully pleasant expression faded off your face in the chilly fall air.

You opened your text thread with Bob and typed with cold fingers:

“Heading back to the compound now, no need to be worried. Will talk soon.”

Three dots appeared almost immediately, and he responded:

“No problem, see you soon. Send the location tracker thing when you get in.”

You smirked at his message, thumbs already moving before you could stop yourself:

“Such a worrier Robert…Kinda hot though 🥵”

You sent it before you could think twice. The moment it was delivered, you stared at it–head tilting slightly, your expression catching somewhere between amusement and embarrassment. Of course it was meant to be a teasing, lighthearted message. The kind of dry humor you always used when Bob got extra overprotective.

But you knew how he was about safety, especially regarding your safety, and especially since you started going on these dates.

You could still hear Yelena’s voice echoing in your head–“You’re turning into a hermit. A sexy, socially-anxious, wine-drunk hermit. That’s not hot, babe…Download some apps for the love of god.”

So you did, and now you had been on six dates, with six different men, and had been introduced to six different brands of disappointment.

And for the first time tonight, as you froze outside, with your fingers brushing the familiar edge of your phone case, the thought crept in that maybe it was you…

You weren’t exactly inexperienced, you had been in a relationship prior to this that had a bad falling out due to you moving to New York…But you were a Thunderbolt, for God’s sake–trained, capable, unflinching in combat. But when it comes to this kind of intimacy? Emotional vulnerability? The whole practice of letting yourself be seen? It felt harder than dodging bullets sometimes.

The Uber driver–a soft-spoken woman with calm eyes–pulled up to the restaurant and greeted you, confirming your name before you stepped into the back.

“Y/N…” You responded, returning a tired smile to her. You placed your heels beside you on the seat and sank into the warm leather, finally feeling the muscles in your back relax. You had one more task before you could switch off for the night–you opened Bob’s pinned thread and tapped the location share icon, putting a note below.

“Tracker sent…Unless the driver turns out to be a serial killer, you’ll see me in twenty.”

The reply came a second later.

“Don’t joke about that…I’m already watching your route.”

You rolled your eyes fondly and let your head fall back against the seat. Of course he was already watching, because that was just Bob. He was always two steps ahead when it came to you. Every time you mentioned a new guy he always asked to read through the profile, but he never said anything critical–like he just wanted to put a name to the face, and see the little blurb they wrote. Then he would always stay up for you, and wait till you got back to the compound safely.

You exhaled softly, watching the city blur past your window. It was late enough that traffic was light, and the closer you got to the Tower, the more you felt the tension bleeding out of your body in slow waves. The warmth of the car helped, but so did knowing who was waiting at the end of the ride.

Twenty minutes later, the familiar glass front of the Watchtower loomed into view. The car came to a slow, quiet stop along the curb.

The driver turned slightly toward you, smiling, “Wow,” She said, tilting her head a bit to get a better look outside the passenger window, “What a nice building.” You followed her gaze toward the glass-fronted façade of the Watchtower, the compound’s lower half glowing faintly from the lobby lights still burning behind reinforced panes. The upper floors were dark now, a few security strobes blinking red against the skyline. It looked sleek from the outside–imposing, even. But from within, it was just…Familiar. The only place in New York that really felt like home. You gave a soft, tired smile.

”Still under renovations,” You replied, gathering your shoes up in your arms, “But it’s comfy.”

”Looks very secure,” She commented with a grin, you chuckled a bit.

“Yeah…That’s definitely the idea.” You slipped out of the back seat with a gentle murmur of thanks, heels in one hand, Your small clutch tucked beneath your arm.

“Have a great night,” You added, closing the door behind you. “Drive safe.” As the car pulled away, you turned and padded toward the entrance, cold air nipping at your legs again. You reached for the key fob clipped to the inside of your jacket and scanned it against the reader beside the reinforced door. A soft chime, then a green light blinked.

Click.

You slipped inside before the wind could follow you.

The lobby was dim and quiet, lit mostly by the soft glow of recessed ceiling panels. The walls were a combination of blackened steel and warm wood accents–part utilitarian fortress, part sleek design prototype. A sitting area to the right was still cluttered with folded blankets and someone’s abandoned socks (Walker’s, probably). One of the wall panels buzzed faintly as the security system refreshed. Somewhere in the back hallway, a cleaning drone hummed past.

Your cheap fold-out flats squeaked against the polished concrete floor as you walked toward the elevator bay, the straps starting to chafe against the inside of your toes. You pulled out your phone and quickly left the driver five stars and a generous tip before sliding it back into your pocket.

The elevator dinged a few seconds later.

You stepped inside and hit the button for the 80th floor–Thunderbolts’ private quarters. The doors slid shut behind you with a whisper.

Then came the feeling. That familiar weightlessness.

The elevator ascended fast–too fast for your already sensitive post-date stomach. You felt it in your ribs first, that swooping g-force pull that lifted the pit of your stomach an inch higher than it was supposed to sit. You leaned your head back against the cool mirrored wall with a quiet sigh and let your eyes fall shut for a moment, letting yourself go completely still.

You felt the shift in your knees when the elevator slowed.

Then–ding.

The doors opened.

You stepped out of the elevator, the doors whispering shut behind you.

The 80th floor always had a particular stillness to it at this time of night, one that could be felt from miles away. The air was cooler here, tinged with the ever-present scent of industrial concrete, stale coffee, and the softest trace of Bob’s cedarwood laundry detergent. Someone–probably Ava–had left a sweater draped over the back of one of the common room chairs, and the hallway light above flickered once, then steadied. Everyone–but you and Bob–were sent on their own missions for the next few weeks, so the both of you had settled in this rhythmic routine of soft conversations and silence. It was peaceful, and for once you didn’t feel like you were being pulled every which way like a medieval torture device.

You bent near the wall, carefully setting down your heels with a soft clink of buckles. Then, with a quiet sigh, you toed off your fold-out flats one by one, nudging them beside the heels in a tired pile. Your toes stretched gratefully against the cold floor.

Soft sounds filtered in from the common room–a low, rhythmic rustle of fabric.

You padded forward.

Bob was sitting on the far end of the couch, folding a small pile of freshly washed clothes on the coffee table in front of him. He wore his usual nighttime uniform–dark sweatpants, slightly too-long sleeves pushed up on a navy crewneck. His light brown hair was still a little damp at the ends, like he had showered not long ago, and gave up halfway through blow drying his locks.

He didn’t notice you at first. His head was bent in quiet concentration, fingers folding a t-shirt with slow, precise care. But the second your footsteps hit the carpeted edge of the room, his head lifted.

His eyes met yours. And then, briefly–barely–they flicked down.

Your jacket had fallen open slightly, the soft beige parting just enough to reveal the satin navy-blue slip beneath. The dress caught what little light there was, glinting at the edges where it hugged your waist and dipped at the neckline. Your makeup was still intact, though your lipstick had faded, and your eyeshadow had begun to crease. But there was something else too–something vulnerable in your eyes now, without the polite mask you’d worn earlier.

Bob swallowed.

His gaze returned quickly to your face, and he offered a soft, crooked smile.

“G-Guess the d-driver wasn’t a s-serial killer, hmm?”

You shook your head with a tired huff. “Disappointing, right?” That earned a soft laugh. He shifted on the couch slightly, still holding a half-folded towel in his lap.

“H-How was the d-date?” You gave a groan that seemed to come from your soul and reached up to rub your fingers along your temple.

“Let me take my face off first,” You muttered, already turning toward the hallway. “Then I’ll divulge the gory details.”

Bob let out another quiet laugh, head tilting slightly. “A-alright. I’ll be here.”

He always was.

You made your way to your room, the door swinging quietly shut behind you. The ritual was muscle memory now: a warm shower to get the city off your skin, your fingers pulling pins from your hair one by one, the hiss of the micellar water bottle as you soaked a cotton pad and wiped away the eyeliner that always smudged more than you expected.

Fifteen minutes later, you emerged again in your night robe–pale gray and soft as clouds, cinched at the waist–and your fluffy white slippers, the thick soles muted against the floor. A cooling gel mask clung to your face, pale green and slightly shiny, promising to soothe the irritation blooming beneath your cheekbones from where you had rubbed too hard.

You looked like a woman who had been to war and came back with just enough energy to report what had happened.

Bob looked up the second he heard your approach.

You didn’t speak right away–just shuffled back into the common room and dropped into the spot on the couch beside him with a dramatic grunt, your limbs folding into the cushions like you were eighty years older than you were.

“W-Want me to get y-you a glass of wine?” He asked quietly. You nodded immediately at his offer, adjusting your robe with a small tug at the collar to cover the exposed curve of your shoulder. The cooling mask clung a little tighter as your expression settled somewhere between

Bob smiled–crooked, and fond–before rising from the couch, stretching out his long limbs, shaking off the stiffness.

He padded softly across the room, bare feet silent against the concrete floor as he stepped into the kitchen. The fridge opened with a quiet suction-pop, casting a muted glow across the space. He pulled out the bottle of red you’d been nursing your way through all week–a California Pinot Noir with plum notes and just enough bite to make you feel like your post-date venting was sophisticated instead of sad, disappointing, and embarrassing.

He poured it carefully into the large glass you always used–stemless, wide-rimmed, and shimmering from the last time you cleaned it.

Then he grabbed himself a can of lemon-lime sparkling water from the side shelf and cracked it open. The hiss echoed softly in the quiet. He grimaced slightly at the first fizz.

It tasted like the static from an old TV, but it was better than caffeine this late at night.

When he returned, he handed you the glass slowly, like he didn’t want to startle you out of the soft space you’d found yourself in.

You looked up and accepted it with both hands, the glass cool against your fingers. “Thanks, Bob.” He nodded–shy, and timid–before he reclaimed his spot beside you on the couch, legs folding underneath him as he resumed his slow, methodical folding of socks and towels and the occasional Thunderbolts t-shirt.

A beat passed.

Then: “S-So…You’re all c-comfortable now…” He paused for effect, glancing sideways with a small, expectant raise of his brows. “D-Divulge.”You let out a long sigh and stared into your wine like it might come alive and answer for you.

“It started okay,” You began. “Really. The place was nice, I actually liked the risotto. He was polite at first, made some decent small talk–asked about my job, what I do with my team. I kept it vague, obviously.”

“O-Obviously,” Bob echoed, smiling faintly as he folded another shirt.

“But then…” You took a slow sip to try and give yourself time to choose your words carefully–letting the sweet tinge of plum settle on your tongue before swallowing, “Something shifted. I don’t even know how to describe it. Just–this weird vibe started coming off him. Like I owed him something for showing up. Like just agreeing to dinner meant I was suddenly locked into…I don’t know. Some kind of romantic contract.”

Bob’s hands slowed their movement. “H-He said that?”

“No,” You muttered, shaking your head. “But he didn’t have to. He looked at me like that. And then I said I wanted to split the bill because he made this smug little comment about ‘investing’ in me.”

Bob’s face twitched. Slightly. His fingers resumed folding, carefully adding another towel to the growing pile. “And h-he didn’t like that?”

You snorted. “Not even a little. He got all passive aggressive about it. Like he was trying to hide that he was annoyed, but it was obvious. Barely made eye contact the rest of the time. Kept checking his phone. He didn’t even wait for me to get my ride.”

Bob’s jaw ticked for half a second, and you missed it. You were still staring into your wineglass, lips pressed into a faint pout that he’d seen too many times lately. He wished he didn’t love that face. He wished you didn’t have to make it so often.

“I just don’t get it,” You started quietly after a beat. “Am I giving off the wrong energy? Is there some neon sign over my head that says ’emotionally exploit me’?”

Bob’s voice came soft. Gentle.

“No,” He replied, “Y-You’re just going out with the w-wrong people…I-I’m sure if you k-keep looking you’ll find someone.” Bob swallowed hard. You could see it–how his throat moved around the sound he didn’t quite let out. His jaw flexed once, and his hand paused in the middle of folding a t-shirt, fingers tightening slightly on the fabric.

The stutter had come on stronger, and you watched as he tried to shake it off, attempting to get a handle on it, even though it wasn’t completely possible. He hated that it got worse when he was around you. There was no way for him to get rid of it–even though the lab techs in the med bay said they would try to help him–but lump the issue in with the anxiousness he felt when you came around him, it became an issue.

Bob wanted to say ‘Maybe that person is me’, he wanted to say ‘The right one could be sitting right in front of you actually’.

But instead, he stayed quiet–letting it rot in the back of his throat like a fruit that never quite ripened. Because the fear of losing this, whatever it was you shared together, was louder than any hope he might’ve harboured.

There was something tragic all poetic about it, really. How close you were, how often you leaned on him, how easily he could reach out and touch you right now–and how impossible it felt to close that final, aching inch.

You took another sip of wine, rolling it across your tongue slowly before swallowing and sighing into the glass.

”All I want is simplicity,” You muttered, eyes fixed somewhere off in the distance. Bob’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second. Then he began folding again–but his pace quickened. Not rushed. Just…focused. Sharpened. Like he couldn’t afford to let himself freeze.

His voice, when it came, was soft but pointed. “A-And w-what does that entail e-exactly…? ‘Cause if you can explain it well, y-you should put it in your profile.” You let out a surprised laugh–small and warm–and nudged your shoulder gently against his.

”Yeah,” You chuckled, “And I should absolutely put a picture of me in this face mask too…It’ll really give off an Osiris vibe.” Bob gave a breathy little laugh of his own, glancing sideways.

”I-I don’t know…M-Might give off the w-wrong impression.” You raised both brows in a mock challenge.

”Who wouldn’t want to go out on a date with the god of fertility, agriculture, the afterlife, and resurrection?” He grinned.

And for a second–just a second–it was easy. Light. You and Bob, trading quiet jokes in the warmth of low light and soft fabric piles. But then the moment shifted again, softening at the edges as the laughter tapered off.

Your voice dropped, just slightly.

“I just want…Small gestures,” You said. “To show that I’m appreciated…Like a bouquet of daisies or something…I’d take anything…”

Bob’s hands stopped moving completely.

“I don’t need extravagant dinners, or to be treated like I’m royalty,” You continued, still not looking at him directly. “I just want some… calm. This life that I lead is already so chaotic. Every mission, every city, every week is different. I want to come home to someone who–” You hesitated, just a beat, “–who will hold me. Who’ll tell me everything is alright. Who won’t ask me to be anyone except exactly who I am.”

Bob’s jaw clenched again. He didn’t realize you were watching him now. Not fully. Not in that slow, deliberate way you only looked when you were trying to see something.

And there it was–the soft pink rising at his cheeks. Not just from your words, but from the fact that he couldn’t hide how much they meant to him. How much they wrecked him.

He swallowed once more, eyes darting to the pile in front of him like it was his lifeline.

Then he cleared his throat and said–voice low, cracking slightly:

“Y-You should… P-Put that down.”

You tilted your head, amused despite the emotion threading your chest. “In my profile?”

Bob nodded quickly–too quickly. “Y-Yeah. All of it. Just—j-just like that.” There was something raw in his voice now. A quiet gentleness. Like he’d been handed a blueprint for the life he wanted most, and it was yours. You leaned back slightly against the couch cushions, one hand curling gently around your wineglass.

“You sure I’m not asking for too much?”

“O-Of course not…” Bob said, his voice low but sure, even if the edges of it still wavered. “I-It’s what you want… I-I don’t think it’s that big of an ask.”

You took a slow breath, one that stretched deep into your chest and pulled at something behind your ribs. Then you tipped back the rest of your wine, letting the last few sips warm your throat as you swallowed down the lump forming there.

You set the empty glass gently on the table and looked down at your hands, thumb brushing along the curve of your palm.

God, Bob.

You’d always known he was a good man. Not just kind, but tender in a way most men didn’t know how to be–especially in your line of work. Bob had that softness that didn’t come from fragility, but from surviving pain and choosing not to become bitter. He was loyal in a way that felt bone-deep. Present without being overbearing. He saw people. He saw you.

And the worst part was…You’d wanted him for a long time.

Not in a crush-on-your-teammate way. Not in a reckless, post-mission hookup way.

But in the quiet way. The real way.

You wanted the version of love that grew slowly between two people who already knew each other inside and out. Who’d seen one another covered in blood and grief and stubbornness. Who’d still shown up anyway. You and Bob had fallen into this rhythm over time–a pattern of mutual tending. Him reading the signs of your stress before you spoke. You reminding him to drink water, to eat, to rest. Him folding your laundry when you left it in the wash too long. You buying his favorite weird little snacks for the pantry without saying anything.

There was so much care between you. So much love, if you were brave enough to name it. But you weren’t. Not really. Because Bob had been through so much–too much–and he was still trying to heal, still trying to be here. You didn’t want to complicate that. You didn’t want to reach for more if it meant tipping the balance.

So instead, you gave him a small, quiet smile and reached out to pat his shoulder once. Just a light tap. Friendly. Familiar.

“I wish they made carbon copies of you, Bob,” you murmured.

He blinked, startled by the comment, and glanced up at you with slightly flushed cheeks. “W-W-Why’s that?”

You shrugged, playing it off like it wasn’t a dagger of truth tucked inside a half-joke.

“I think the dating pool would be a lot less disappointing,” You said casually, but your eyes lingered on him just a second too long. Your voice softened. “Maybe then I’d actually have a chance at something good.”

Bob’s brows furrowed faintly.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Tilted his head like he was trying to solve a riddle.

“W-Wait, d-do you mean–like–m-more guys who c-care about safety? Or–uh–laundry?” He asked, uncertain, lips pursed slightly.

You smiled–tight, almost fond. Of course it went over his head.

You turned back toward the couch cushion, pulling your legs beneath you and tucking your robe a little tighter at the waist.

“Never mind,” You said, voice easy and light, but your heart thudding just a little harder. “Forget I said anything.”

Bob looked at you for a moment longer, like he could sense something more behind the words but didn’t quite know how to reach it.

Then, slowly, he nodded and went back to folding.

You watched the way his fingers moved–so gentle, so meticulous. As if every wrinkle mattered. As if it was easier to smooth out cotton than the knot slowly forming in his chest.

Neither of you said anything for a long time.

But your hand stayed close to his on the cushion, only an inch away.

————————

Two days later you were walking up the familiar steps of the Watchtower again, this time with your hands deep in your jacket pockets and lips pressed into a thin, tight line.

It had started off fine–actually, better than fine. Leo had chosen something casual, a walk through Central Park with lattes in hand. Low-pressure, decent weather, and a chance to talk. You’d worn jeans this time, a cozy knit sweater tucked into a belt at your waist, a cream scarf wound loose around your neck, and boots that were comfortable enough for walking.

You tried. Yet again.

But about twenty minutes in, you realized you were asking all the questions. You asked what he did, what he liked to do, where he grew up, what kind of music he liked–trying to keep the flow natural, easy. But every time you paused to take a sip of your coffee, hoping he’d ask you something back…He didn’t. Not once.

Worse still, every other sentence seemed to reference how close his apartment was. ‘Just a few blocks up, fifteen-minute walk tops, I could make us some drinks, you like mezcal?’ You smiled through it, tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just nervous. Maybe he wasn’t great with conversation. But the more time passed, the more it felt like you were auditioning for the role of “hookup of the night.”

Eventually, you stopped walking.

“Hey…” You started, wrapping both hands around your coffee cup for warmth. “I don’t want to waste your time. You seem nice, but…I’m not really feeling a connection here.”

Leo blinked, shrugged, and gave a crooked smirk. “Well…Your loss.”

You smiled back. Not because it was funny–but because it was so damn predictable.

You peeled off from the sidewalk and ordered an Uber back to the Tower before he could say anything else.

The elevator doors whispered shut behind you as you stepped out onto the 80th floor, your boots thudding softly against the polished concrete. The air smelled different up here tonight.

Warm.

Sweet.

Soft citrus curled into your nose before you even reached the hallway–sharp and bright, softened by a buttery undercurrent that clung to the air like steam from a kettle. It smelled like sugar and zest and something just on the verge of golden brown.

Lemon.

You breathed in deeper. There was vanilla too–just a touch–folded gently beneath the tartness. Something baked. Something familiar.

Lemon poppyseed.

Of course.

You kicked your boots off by the wall, nudging them neatly beneath the little bench just outside the elevator bay. You could already hear movement coming from the kitchen–quiet shifting, the muffled rattle of a spoon against ceramic, and the hum of the oven fan cycling low in the background.

“H-How did i-it go?”

His voice came from around the corner, soft and hopeful and already laced with a nervous edge.

You paused mid-step.

For a moment, you just…Stood there. Breathing in the smell. Letting the warmth settle somewhere in your chest. Then, slowly, you reached up and unraveled your scarf from around your neck. The soft wool slipped free with a sigh of fabric, and you tossed it over the hook near the elevator. Your jacket followed, shoulders slumping as you shrugged out of it and hung it up too.

You padded forward.

“Another dud,” You announced plainly, turning into the wide open space of the Thunderbolts common kitchen. The lights were low, golden, casting soft amber glows across the granite counters and brushed steel appliances. Bob was perched at the far end of the kitchen island, elbows resting on either side of an open book, one knee pulled up on the stool.

He looked up from the pages immediately.

The sleeves of his dark thermal sweater had been shoved up to his forearms, revealing his pale blue veins that traveled up the inside of it. His cheeks were pink–not just from the oven’s warmth, but from the way your voice had settled into something tired and close. He closed the book slowly, a thumb marking the page.

“R-Really?” He asked. “I-I thought you said he w-was awesome…” You moved toward the oven without answering, hands absently dragging along the edge of the counter as you passed. Your fingers reached for the switch beside the stovetop, flicking on the tiny oven light. The inside glowed to life.

A loaf tin sat in the center rack–round and golden, the top just beginning to dome. Tiny cracks laced the surface where the batter had risen, flecked through with little black seeds. A small pool of sugar syrup had glazed part of the crust, catching the light like glass. It was almost done.

You stared at it for a beat. The warmth from the oven kissed your knees through your jeans. Then you exhaled through your nose, lips curling faintly.

“What’re you making?” You murmured, though you already knew.

He cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter. “L-Lemon poppyseed l-loaf…Your f-favourite.”

You turned slowly to look at him over your shoulder, one brow raised, a knowing smile twitching at your mouth. “You know me too well.”

Bob flushed immediately–his chin tucking just slightly as he looked down at the book again, shifting like he didn’t know what to do with his hands now. He fiddled with the edge of the spine. “T-Thought we would be c-celebrating a successful first date…”

You let out a small, quiet laugh–not because it was funny, but because he meant it. Because he’d baked your favorite thing, timed it to be warm for your return, because he had hoped.

That was the thing with Bob. He hoped for you when you didn’t even bother anymore.

You stepped away from the oven and came around the island, hands brushing along the edge again as you moved. You leaned one hip against the stool beside him and glanced down at his book–Dune, from the looks of the cover. An older edition. His finger still held the page bookmarking it as he kept his attention on you.

You reached for the lemon syrup bowl he had left near the stove and dipped one finger into it absently, then touched it to your tongue. Tart. Warm. Sticky. He watched the way you closed your eyes for a brief moment and sighed before glancing up at him.

“Guess I don’t know how to read people too well.” Bob stared at you like he could read you better than anyone else ever had.

But he didn’t say it.

He just nodded once, shy and small, and reached for a folded tea towel beside the cooling rack, laying it out for the loaf even though it wasn’t quite ready yet.

Your eyes lingered on his hands for a second too long, and then your voice broke the silence–gentle, but teasing. You dipped your finger into the syrup again–just to give yourself something to do other than daydream about the gentleness of his touch–then licked it clean with a soft sigh and turned toward Bob.

“Why haven’t you gotten on the dating apps?” You asked, voice quiet but genuine. “I mean, I’m sure there’s a girl out there who’d be dying to have someone like you.” Bob’s head snapped up slightly, like you’d just suggested something obscene. His brows pinched together, and then he let out a nervous laugh, shaking his head almost immediately.

“N-No, no…That’d mean b-both of us would end up swapping b-bad date stories every other day,” He said, waving the idea off like it might physically catch fire in the air between you. “I-If the dating pool’s treating you this badly…I think I’d be incinerated on the first go.”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t think you’d have as much trouble as me, Bob.”

He gave you a small, confused glance. “W-Why not?”

You shrugged, your tone casual, but your eyes stayed trained on him. “Because you’re…You. You listen. You care. You’ll literally do anything to make sure someone is comfortable, and you don’t make people feel like they’re a burden. That’s…A lot more rare than you think.”

Bob blinked. Then flushed again–his jaw tightening slightly as he looked down at the tea towel like it held the answer to everything he didn’t know how to say.

He didn’t joke this time. He didn’t deflect.

Instead, his voice came soft, honest, and out of nowhere.

“I-I think you deserve someone who c-could give you the world…” Your eyes lifted to his–soft and searching, your expression unreadable for just a breath.

“You really think so?” You asked, your voice quiet. Too quiet.

Bob met your gaze, hesitant at first, like he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to look at you like this. But he nodded, slow and sure.

“O-Of course…” He said, the words trembling just slightly. “Y-You’d want the same for m-me…w-would you not?”

Your brows lifted a touch, surprised by how gently–how truthfully–he turned the question around onto you, so the spotlight would no longer be directed to him.

And for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

Then, almost instinctively, you smiled. It was small, lopsided. But real. Something soft tugged at the corner of your mouth, and you had to glance away for a moment just to keep your chest from cracking wide open.

“…Yeah,” You murmured, clearing your throat faintly. “Yeah. I would.”

It wasn’t just a platitude.

You meant it.

You wanted the world for him too. You always had.

And maybe, for the first time, you realized he knew that.

Bob blinked a few times, like he was trying to ground himself in the moment–trying not to let the weight of your answer topple him over. His hands twitched slightly on the tea towel, and he looked like he was about to say something else–something important–when–

Beep.

The oven timer broke through the silence, sharp and shrill in the golden warmth of the kitchen.

Bob jolted slightly, blinking hard as if the sound yanked him out of a dream. “O-Oh,” He breathed, rising quickly from the stool. “T-That’s the loaf.”

He turned, his sweater sleeves falling slightly down as he grabbed an oven mitt and opened the door.

Heat spilled into the kitchen in a rush–rich and fragrant. The scent of sugar and lemon intensified, thickening the air with sweetness and steam. Bob carefully slid the tin out and onto the counter, setting it on the tea towel he’d laid out earlier.

You watched as he worked–his hands steady despite the pink in his cheeks, despite the subtle tension still sitting at the base of his neck.

The moment between you still hummed there, quiet and full of everything unsaid.

But you didn’t press it. Not yet.

Because something had changed. Because even though the timer had interrupted the words, the feeling still lingered. Settled between you like the scent of lemon zest and vanilla.

You stood beside the counter as Bob leaned over the loaf, gently brushing the syrup glaze over the top with a small silicone brush, careful not to let it pool too fast.

He didn’t speak. Neither did you.

But your arms brushed once, barely.

And he didn’t move away.

You stayed there–close enough to feel the warmth rising off the pound cake, close enough to feel the air shift every time he breathed.

Close enough to wonder if maybe, just maybe…

You hadn’t been looking too deep into it at all.

————————

Three days later, you were sitting in the corner of a quiet coffee shop downtown, holding a half-full latte that had long gone cold.

The man across from you–Jason? Jordan?–was talking. About something. Work, maybe. Or CrossFit. Or how his ex still texted him sometimes, but it wasn’t weird because “she’s just not over me yet.” You’d stopped tracking it somewhere around minute seven. Your eyes were on him, your chin resting on your palm, but your mind was far, far away and sharply focused on Bob.

You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since that night in the kitchen. The smell of lemon glaze still lingered somewhere in your senses, curling around you like a memory you didn’t want to shake off. You kept replaying the sound of his voice–the way it cracked when he said you deserve someone who could give you the world. The way he looked at you when you asked if he meant it.

It wasn’t fair to sit across from someone new while thinking about him—but here you were, watching this guy check his reflection in the window for the third time while your mind looped the image of Bob brushing syrup across golden crust like it was an act of devotion.

You sipped your latte again. Cold.

“I mean, what kind of girl doesn’t like tequila?” the man asked suddenly, with a scoff and a shake of his head.

You blinked. “Hm?”

He laughed. “I said–I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like tequila. Like, if a girl says that on a date, I’m already checking out.” He grinned like it was charming. Like it was some kind of universal truth.

You offered a tight smile and checked your phone. No new messages. But Bob’s pinned thread sat right there at the top, quietly glowing like a lighthouse in fog.

“Excuse me,” You said suddenly, pushing your chair back, grabbing your coat before he could say anything else. “I just remembered I have to be somewhere.”

You didn’t wait for him to respond, you just apologized and rushed out.

The cold slapped your cheeks the moment you stepped outside the café, but you didn’t care. You didn’t even flinch.

Your boots hit the pavement hard, one after the other, your hands jammed deep in your coat pockets and your mind racing with every step. You didn’t call for a car this time. You didn’t need to. The Watchtower was just a block away–rising tall and familiar through the gray city haze like it had been waiting for you. Like he had been waiting for you.

You crossed the street on instinct, breath catching at your throat as the compound’s glass façade came into view. You didn’t even register the security team at the front desk. You just nodded once, clipped your badge at the scanner, and pushed your way through the reinforced door like it owed you answers.

The elevator opened with a quiet chime.

You stepped in, hit the button for the 80th floor, and leaned back against the mirror, exhaling through your nose.

Your fingers were trembling. You folded your arms across your chest, trying to keep still. But your hand started tapping against the side of the elevator anyway, bouncing in a quick, nervous rhythm. One. Two. Three. Tap tap tap.

This wasn’t just about the date anymore. This wasn’t about frustration or exhaustion or bad conversation. This was about Bob.

This was about all the quiet gestures. The folding of your laundry. The checking of your location to make sure you were safe. The lemon loaf. The way he had looked at you like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how. You couldn’t sit on it anymore. You couldn’t wonder if you were imagining it. You had to know.

The elevator dinged.

You stepped out.

The air on the 80th floor was warm–quiet. Like the world was holding its breath.

Your boots hit the polished concrete with familiar weight, but you kicked them off quickly near the bench, letting them thud softly as they landed side by side. You padded forward in thick socks, heart thumping loud in your ears, and turned the corner toward the common room.

“Bob?” You called softly, voice catching on the edge of your breath. “Are you here? I… I need to talk–”

You stopped mid-step.

The words caught in your throat like smoke.

Because there, right in the center of the coffee table, beneath the soft glow of the standing lamp–

Was a vase of daisies.

Your breath hitched quietly.

Not roses. Not peonies. Not anything dramatic or overt.

Just simple, white-petaled daisies–dozens of them–tall and bright and a little uneven, like he’d picked through the bunches carefully to find the right ones. The ones that felt like you. Gentle. Honest. Unassuming.

Beside the vase was a small bowl–ceramic, navy blue, the one you always used for popcorn on movie nights. But instead of popcorn, it was filled to the brim with Lindor truffles.

Every kind.

White chocolate. Dark. Sea salt. Milk. Hazelnut. Pistachio.

Your breath left you in a soft, shaky exhale.

He remembered. You’d once told him–months ago in a conversation you barely remembered yourself–that you didn’t have a favorite flavor. That you just liked the surprise of reaching in and never knowing which one you’d get. That it felt like a reward no matter what.

You stepped forward slowly, almost on instinct, like the moment would vanish if you moved too fast. You came to stand before the table, eyes wide and soft, lips parting just slightly as you reached out.

Your fingers brushed the rim of the vase.

The stems were fresh. Still damp with condensation. He must have gone out earlier today–probably snuck them in while you were on your date, hoping to surprise you when you got back. Hoping to make you smile.

And God, it worked.

Your eyes shimmered slightly–not with sadness, but with something else. Something warm and aching and full.

You smiled, small and stunned and tender.

Then you heard it–the quiet shuffle of footsteps from the hallway behind you.

You turned.

And there he was.

Bob stood just past the hallway arch, bathed in the low amber light spilling from the living room. His light brown hair was soft and fluffed at the crown, like he’d run a brush through it half a dozen times and still thought it wasn’t enough. There was a faint wave to it, the kind that always tried to curl when he let it dry naturally. His sweater–charcoal gray with sleeves pushed up to his elbows–clung slightly to the line of his shoulders, and the soft cotton of his navy sweatpants hung low on his hips, loose but familiar.

He looked so domestic it nearly broke your heart.

He froze when he saw you standing there, still in your socks, still inches from the daisies, still wrapped in the kind of silence that only ever came before something life-changing.

“I-I didn’t expect you to be b-back so early…” He stammered, eyes flicking to the door like he was trying to reorient himself in real time.

You shook your head, the corner of your mouth tugging with something soft–something bruised and full of clarity.

“I left.”

Bob blinked.

“I stopped the date,” You added, voice quiet, but steady. “I couldn’t be there anymore.”

His brows drew in with sudden concern. “A-Are you okay?”

You hesitated.

Then shook your head again–then nodded. A small, helpless sound left you, somewhere between a laugh and a breath. “No–I mean…yes, I’m okay, I just…”

Your hand lifted slightly from your side, like the words needed a physical anchor. Your fingers hovered in the air between you.

“I left because of you.”

That stopped him.

Completely.

His mouth parted slightly, confusion flickering across his face, chased by something softer–something more dangerous. Hope.

You stepped toward him.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Bob.”

His whole body stilled. His shoulders lifted–just a little–like the breath in his lungs was suddenly too big to keep quiet.

And then you said it.

“I’ve been trying so hard to pretend that it’s just friendship. That it’s just comfort. That I’m just tired or lonely or healing from something else. But it’s not. It’s never been that.”

Your voice was trembling now. But it didn’t falter.

“Every time I sit across from someone new, I realize that all I’m looking for is you. I’m hoping for your laugh, your voice, your hands. I’m comparing everything to how it feels when I’m sitting beside you on that couch folding towels and drinking wine like we’re building a life together in the quiet.”

Bob’s eyes shined. Wide and liquidy. Like the words were pouring into him faster than he could hold them.

“I don’t need someone who’ll try to impress me. I don’t want someone who’ll try to win me. I just want someone who’s already here. Who sees me, who remembers the truffles I love, who bakes lemon poppyseed loaves not because I asked–but because they knew I’d need comfort.”

Your voice cracked, and you let it bloom raw and real between you.

“I want someone whose voice I miss when I’m surrounded by people. I want someone who listens like the world goes quiet when I speak. I want you, Bob. Not a maybe. Not a someday. Not if you ever get around to feeling the same. I want you now. Exactly as you are.”

Silence stretched.

Your chest rose and fell, breathless and stripped bare.

Bob didn’t speak. He just stared–like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right. Like the words were still echoing in the space between you, too fragile to touch.

His mouth opened slightly. Then closed. His eyes flicked across your face like he was trying to memorize it again, all over again–trying to understand how something he’d wanted for so long had just unfolded in front of him like a gift he didn’t think he deserved.

You could see it–the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his chest rose too fast and shallow beneath the soft cotton of his sweater. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move.

And then he did.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Each step he took was measured, careful–like if he moved too fast, it might startle you, might wake you both up from the spell that had settled over the room like warm syrup and late summer light. And the closer he got, the more the air shifted.

That scent–his scent–wrapped around you before he even reached you. Clean cedar. Fresh laundry. Something faintly earthy, like he’d gone out earlier and carried the scent of wind back with him. It hit you like a comfort you hadn’t realized you’d been starving for. And then he was right in front of you.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

He just looked at you.

And then his hands rose and found your cheeks.

Warm. Gentle.

His thumbs swept forward, brushing softly beneath your eyes, tracing the delicate skin there like it mattered to him more than anything. And maybe it did. His fingers curled along your jaw, tilting your face just enough to meet his eyes.

They were glassy blue–pale and bright and shining with something barely held back. The kind of color that looked like sky at the edge of winter, but deeper somehow. More infinite. His lashes fluttered just once as he took you in, as if he couldn’t believe you were real. His gaze searched every inch of your face–your lips, your brows, your tear-glossed lashes–like you were a question he already knew the answer to.

He was smiling.

So soft.

So vulnerable.

Like it hurt, but in the best way.

“I-I’m very sure y-you know how I f-feel…” he whispered, voice fraying around the edges. “I… I t-think it’s obvious…R-Right?” You couldn’t breathe, not with him this close. Not with that look in his eyes. But your hand lifted–nervous, slow–and slid to the back of his, pressing your palm against his knuckles where they cupped your cheek.

“…Can you say it?” You whispered, barely audible. Your voice cracked on the last word.

Bob’s breath hitched.

His forehead tipped down, brushing just slightly against yours as he closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself. You could feel it in the way his chest trembled when he exhaled. And then he nodded–just once, almost imperceptibly.

“I-I love you.”

The words were quiet and raw. Just pure truth.

“I’ve l-loved you for months,” He added, his breath hot against your cheek. “I–I just didn’t know how to say it without losing you.” You made a soft sound, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, and his eyes opened again–so blue, so open it made your knees weak.

“You’re not losing me,” You whispered.

Bob gave you the smallest smile—barely a curve, barely a breath—but it lit up every inch of his face. His eyes glimmered, lashes low as they flicked down…

To your mouth.

And God help you, your gaze did the same.

You saw it happen—the moment everything between you shifted. The air went still, thicker somehow, humming with anticipation. Your chests rose in perfect rhythm, and when your eyes met again, it was like every hesitation had burned away under the weight of the moment.

You leaned in at the same time.

Not fast.

Not urgent.

But with a certainty that stole the breath straight from your lungs.

Your lips met with a soft, searing press–a sigh shared in skin.

Warm. Delicate. Then deeper.

Bob kissed like he’d been waiting his entire life for it.

He tilted his head just slightly to the side, coaxing you closer with a trembling inhale against your mouth. His lips parted slow, brushing yours again–this time with more heat, more surety–and you responded in kind, your fingers curling into the soft cotton of his sweater as your body folded into his.

You could feel it in the way his chest moved–tight, uneven, like the kiss had undone something at the center of him. His hands left your face then, slow and reverent, sliding down the line of your neck, over your shoulders, down your sides until his fingers found the soft denim belt loops at your waist.

He tugged gently.

And you stepped into him like you were meant to be there.

The front of your body pressed against his fully now–your sweater brushing his, your belt buckle hitting just right against the soft curve of his hips. He pulled you closer by those loops, anchoring you there as his mouth moved against yours with more purpose.

This wasn’t a tentative kiss.

This was discovery.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize everything–how your breath caught when his tongue teased the edge of your bottom lip, how your fingers fisted tighter in his shirt when he deepened the kiss just slightly, how you sighed into him like you were pouring your soul through your mouth.

And God, the sound he made when you kissed him back like that–a low, broken hum that spilled from his chest and straight into your skin–made your knees falter. He caught you without thinking, his arms tightening around your waist as he walked you backward gently.

Your knees hit the couch with a gentle bump, and Bob slowed just enough to ease the kiss, to make sure you were still with him–still saying yes in every way your mouth and hands and breath could offer it. His lips lingered against yours for one last soft brush before he pulled back just slightly, just enough to breathe.

His eyes searched yours–wide, awestruck, dazed with heat and disbelief. His breath was shallow, his chest rising fast against yours. He looked drunk on you. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like it was better than any dream he’d dared to have.

“That was…” He whispered, voice raw and ragged. “That was b-better than what I-I imagined.”

Your lips curled into a smile. Slow. Deep. Smug in the softest, most tender way.

“You’ve been imagining this?”

Bob flushed instantly–pink rising to his cheeks, to the tips of his ears. But he didn’t deny it.

“…Every night,” He murmured, like it was a confession too intimate to speak aloud, but too honest to bury. “S-Since the mission in Prague. W-When you fell asleep in my room…And you–”

You didn’t let him finish. You leaned up and kissed him again–fast, needy, grateful.

He groaned softly into your mouth, and then he moved.

One arm wrapped behind your thighs, the other around your back, and with a soft grunt of effort and a gentle grip, Bob lifted you–just enough to make you gasp quietly against his lips.

You clung to him instinctively, your arms winding around his shoulders as he eased you down onto the couch, laying you out gently across the cushions. His body followed, covering yours in one slow motion. His weight was careful, braced on his forearms, but the closeness was unbearable in the best way. Every line of him pressed against you–chest to chest, hips cradled between your legs, the fabric of his sweatpants brushing your jeans.

The world outside that couch didn’t exist anymore.

Not the cold, not the city, not the weight of bad dates or missed signals or time spent pretending. There was only this–the heat of his body pressed to yours, the sharp rise and fall of his breath, the way your legs cradled his hips like you were carved to fit him there. His nose brushed yours once–just the lightest touch–before his mouth returned to yours with a kiss slower than the last. A little deeper. A little more certain.

Then he pulled back just enough to press his forehead to yours again. His breath ghosted across your lips, shaky and uneven, and his eyes fluttered closed for half a second like he needed a moment to just exist inside the feeling.

“C-Can I…?” He whispered, the words barely a sound. His hands hadn’t moved—still braced beside your ribs, still careful not to overwhelm you with his weight. “C-Can I kiss you there…? J-Just your neck, I—” He swallowed hard. “I-I’ve imagined it s-so many times…” Your heart thudded in your chest, and you tilted your head without a word, exposing the soft skin that lined your neck and slipped beneath the collar of your sweater.

And that was all it took.

Bob bent slowly, reverently, until his mouth met the curve of your throat. His lips brushed there once–so gentle it felt more like breath than contact–before he kissed again, then again, a little lower each time. His nose nuzzled against your skin, and you could feel the way his breath stuttered as his lips found the hollow just above your collarbone. He lingered there. Soft. Warm. Like he needed the taste of your skin to make sure this was real.

You reached up slowly, fingers weaving into his hair, and the soft sound that left his chest–half a whimper, half a sigh–nearly undid you. His mouth parted against your neck and he kissed deeper this time, tongue flicking out to taste you with a need so gentle it ached.

“You’re so…” He murmured between kisses, lips brushing the base of your jaw, “s-so beautiful…”

Your breath hitched as you felt him mouth along your pulse, each kiss more tender than the last.

“B-Bob…”

The sound of his name in your voice–it wrecked him.

He lifted his head, eyes heavy with awe, and looked down at you like you were the center of the universe. Like he’d been holding back every star just to make sure they didn’t blind you. His fingers moved finally, trembling as they skimmed along your waist, slipping beneath the hem of your sweater with devastating care.

“I… I want to see you,” He whispered, and even though the words were quiet, they carried the weight of everything he’d never let himself say. “I w-want to kiss all of you. I w-want you to feel how long I’ve been waiting…”

You lifted your arms in silent answer.

He tugged your sweater up slowly–inch by inch–like every new patch of skin was something sacred. His eyes never left you. Not even when the fabric caught at your elbows, not even when it bared your ice white bra and the delicate slope of your waist beneath. He was trembling when he helped you sit up just enough to pull it the rest of the way off, his breath hitching as he took in the sight of you–soft and flushed beneath him, chest rising fast.

“Oh my god…” He breathed, voice frayed and full of light. “You’re…y-you’re unreal…” You could see him drinking you in. His hands moved on their own now, cupping the sides of your ribs, thumbs brushing up just beneath the line of your bra. But even then–trembling and overwhelmed–he looked up at you for permission, eyes wide, desperate for yes.

You gave it with a kiss–hot and slow and aching–and his body folded into you like it was breaking.

His hands moved with more certainty now, finding the clasp at your back, undoing it with a shaky exhale. You felt the tension melt out of him when the bra slipped away and your bare chest was revealed. His mouth parted slightly. His pupils blew wide. His gaze swept over you like poetry he didn’t know how to write.

Then he bent.

And kissed the swell of your breast–so gentle, it made your back arch into him desperate for more. His lips lingered there for a moment, breathing warmth onto your skin before giving a soft, open-mouthed kiss that left heat blooming across your skin. He moved with aching restraint, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you with his mouth. You gasped as his tongue slipped out to taste you, the barest flick before he suckled gently at the skin, then moved down again. His breath hitched as his lips dragged along the swell just above your nipple, and his fingers dug tighter into your waist like he needed grounding.

“You smell so good,” He whispered hoarsely, words barely audible against your skin. “Y-You taste like…Like vanilla and heaven and–God, I don’t know, I…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

His mouth moved lower again, and this time he parted his lips around the top of your breast and sucked–softly, then increasing the intensity. You felt the pull of it all the way down your spine. His teeth grazed just slightly before his tongue smoothed over it, like an apology and a promise in one. Your back arched, your fingers threading tighter into his hair, and that made him groan. Deep in his throat. Almost possessive.

And then he did it again.

A slower suck. Firmer. Longer.

And then another.

He moved to the other side, leaving your skin glistening and flushed in his wake. And now you felt it–cool air where his mouth had just been, and the slow, heady sting blooming beneath the surface as blood rushed up to meet the bruises he was pressing into you.

Little love bites.

He was marking you.

Not out of control, not careless–but worshipfully. Intimately. He wanted to see the proof of how much he adored you, how much you wanted this. Wanted him.

His hair had fallen forward now–messy, loose strands tickling across your chest, brushing against your collarbone and the top of your stomach. The softness of it contrasted the way his mouth worked–hot and unrelenting now, like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t want to.

You whimpered–soft, broken–and he moaned at the sound, dragging his lips down again to leave another kiss, another suck, another blooming ache just above your rib cage.

When he finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, he lifted his head and stared down at you.

At the marks.

His eyes darkened. And a smile–barely there, but unmistakably real–curved the corner of his mouth.

He looked proud.

His thumb traced one of the little bruises, and he hummed softly, like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever made. “C-Can’t believe… I get to do this,” he murmured, voice rough with disbelief and reverence.

And then he bent lower, slowly, slowly, until his mouth hovered over your nipple.

His breath hit you first. Hot. Shaky.

Then–just once–he sucked.

A soft, teasing pull that made your whole body jolt.

“B-Bob…” You whispered, your voice shaking like it couldn’t contain the sound of his name and the feeling at once.

He looked up at you through his lashes, hair falling into his eyes, lips still parted over your skin.

“I-I’m sorry,” He whispered, but the wicked glint in his eyes betrayed him. “I-I’ve wanted this f-for so long… I c-can’t go slow anymore…”

And then he closed his mouth over you fully.

Heat exploded through your chest as he sucked harder this time, tongue circling, flattening, flicking over your nipple in fast, rhythmic passes. He moaned again–loud and broken–like just having you like this in his mouth was overwhelming him.

His hand came up to cup your other breast, thumb brushing the peak, coaxing it to life while his mouth ravaged the first.

You arched against him, hips lifting, your fingers tugging his hair hard now–and that only made him groan louder. He pressed himself closer to you, grinding just a little, like he couldn’t help it, like the pleasure of this was sinking through every inch of him and setting his nerves on fire.

His mouth worked with feverish devotion–sucking, licking, pulling until the pleasure had you gasping, trembling, whispering his name like it was a prayer.

When he finally released you, your nipple wet and swollen from his mouth, he kissed it once more–soft, lingering.

Then his voice came again, low and reverent.

“You’re…Y–You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He was visibly shaking.

His eyes were glassy with heat, with awe, with everything he’d been holding back for months.

And still… He wanted more.

Bob’s lips lingered against your chest, breath coming in shallow waves, his mouth still slick from the last kiss he’d left on your skin. His hand was trembling slightly where it cupped the side of your waist, and when he pulled back just enough to look at you, the blue in his eyes was molten–liquid with heat, gentleness, and just a trace of hesitation.

“W-We…W-we can stop now, if you want…” He whispered, voice raw and uneven. “I-I know we’re going, like…R-Really fast right now and I just–”

You shook your head immediately, too fast, your hand reaching for his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek like you needed him to hear you–really hear you.

“No. No, I like this,” You said, breathless but sure. “Fast is fine with me. Please don’t stop.” Bob’s brows lifted just slightly, his expression wrecked with awe and something softer–something close to disbelief

“A-Are you sure?” he asked, the words catching on the edge of a breath. “I-I don’t wanna mess this up. I don’t wanna rush y-you or–”

You cut him off with a whisper

“I haven’t been touched like this in over a year, Bob.”

His breath hitched hard in his throat. His lips parted, but he didn’t speak.

“I forgot what it was like,” You continued, voice cracking with emotion and need, “To want someone to touch me this badly. To feel good with it. Safe with it. Wanted like this. Like I’m…Something you can’t stop worshipping.”

Bob made a quiet, broken noise in the back of his throat. His hand fisted gently in the cushion beside your head, his whole body taut with restraint. You pulled him closer, your leg curling around his hip as your voice dropped even lower–soft and hot against the shell of his ear.

“I want to feel all of you. I want to feel your hands everywhere. Your mouth, your breath, the way you look at me like I’m yours. I don’t want to slow down, Bob. Not with you. I’ve been waiting a long time… And it’s only ever been you in the back of my mind.”

A shudder rolled through him like a wave. His head dropped to your shoulder for a beat, breath heaving once, twice, as he soaked in your words.

When he lifted it again, something had changed in his eyes.

There was no hesitation now. No uncertainty. Just wonder. Just hunger. Just the overwhelming need to give you everything.

His hand slid down to your thigh, trembling but firm, and his voice was barely above a whisper as he pressed his forehead to yours and spoke.

“O-Okay,” He said, with a nod so soft it felt like a vow, and then he kissed you again–deep and devastating and full of everything he had left to give. His tongue swept into your mouth with a low, muffled groan, meeting yours in a rhythm that made your thighs clench around his hips. You kissed him like you needed to breathe him in–open-mouthed, gasping, letting the slick heat of it slide between your teeth as your fingers curled into the back of his neck. His moan vibrated against your mouth, and you swallowed it down, letting the sound melt between the drag of your tongues and the quiet, breathless whimpers it drew from both of you.

It was messy in the best way–saliva slicking the seam of your lips, the soft pull of his bottom lip between your teeth, the desperate glide of his mouth returning to yours like he couldn’t stay away for more than a second. Your fingers drifted down from his neck–shaky and eager–sliding past his collarbone to the hem of his sweater.

You tugged once.

Bob pulled back from the kiss, breath shuddering, and looked down at you with flushed cheeks and glistening lips. A string of wet heat broke between your mouths as he hovered just above you, eyes dark, dazed, and wrecked with reverence.

He reached behind his head and took hold of the back of his sweater–then in one slow, fluid motion, pulled it over his head and tossed it aside.

It hit the floor with a soft thud. Your breath caught.

The sight of him–bare and warm and glowing in the soft amber light–made your stomach tighten with want.

His chest was all soft muscle and broad lines, defined but not super intense, he looked strong without even trying. There were faint shadows where his ribs curved beneath smooth skin, and a constellation of freckles scattered across his chest and shoulders like the stars had kissed him once and left their mark. You traced them with your eyes, then your hands, fingers feathering over the slope of his abdomen, feeling the warmth of him, the subtle tremble in his stomach as you dragged your touch lower.

There were beauty marks near his ribs. A scar just beneath one. A thin, faded line on his left hip. You memorized each one like they were holy things.

His breath hitched.

He looked down at you, blinking slowly, and then he smirked. Just barely. Just enough to steal your breath all over again.

“That s-suit…” He rasped, eyes flicking across your face as your hands continued their soft exploration, “R-Really doesn’t do all of this justice.”

You let out a breathy laugh, thumb brushing a freckle near his sternum. “What, the Sentry suit?” You teased, eyebrows lifting as you let your gaze drag down his torso again. “No kidding. That thing hides the good stuff.” Bob’s laughter was soft and hoarse–more a puff of breath than a full sound–but it shook through him all the same.

His shoulders trembled slightly as he ducked his head, the flush creeping up from his chest to stain his neck and cheeks a deep rose. He shook his head slowly, strands of light brown hair falling over his brown, then looked back down at you with a gaze so open and adoring it made your heart lurch.

“Y-You’re ridiculous,” He whispered, smiling like he didn’t know what to do with how much he wanted you. Your fingers brushed slowly down the center of his chest, and he shivered under the touch. His breath caught, and before you could say anything else, he reached down gently–his hand curling around your wrist like it was made for his palm. He brought it up between your bodies, eyes never leaving yours.

Then, with infinite care, he pressed a kiss to your palm.

It was slow. Hot. The kind of kiss that burned straight into your skin and stayed there. His lips parted slightly as they brushed your hand, and the sigh he breathed out as he kissed it again–so tender, so loving–made your throat tighten.

“C-Can I take your j-jeans off?” He asked, voice barely above a breath, almost shy despite the way his eyes darkened with want.

You nodded.

His expression flickered–relief, desire, awe–and then he shifted. Slowly. Carefully.

Bob sat back on his heels between your legs, hands moving to the waistband of your jeans with trembling fingers. He leaned down as he worked the button open, pressing a kiss just beneath your navel, right where your stomach dipped gently in.

You gasped.

And he paused, glanced up at you, searching for permission.

“Please,” You whispered, your voice breaking slightly from how badly you wanted it. “Keep going.”

He nodded–swallowed hard–and began to shimmy the jeans down.

He kissed his way down with them.

Every inch he uncovered, he honored. The denim slid inch by inch over your hips, down your thighs, and as it went, his mouth followed. He kissed the curve of your hipbone, the soft dip above your inner thigh, the top of your kneecap. His nose nuzzled into the skin as he worked, lips brushing tenderly along the sensitive flesh of your upper legs, and every kiss made you twitch, gasp, sigh.

By the time your jeans were completely off and tossed to the side, you were panting—half from anticipation, half from the weight of his mouth on your skin.

Bob’s hands ran up your calves, slow and wide-palmed, then curled behind your knees, spreading you open just a little more, until you were fully on display for him. His gaze dropped then.

And when it landed, it stuck.

You could see his breath catch. His mouth parted slightly as his eyes took you in—laid out beneath him in a delicate black pair of underwear trimmed in lace, the shape of your body flushed and trembling and framed by the soft glow of the room.

His fingers drifted toward your hips again, calloused pads skimming along the waistband.

He swallowed.

“V-Very pretty…” he whispered, almost reverent. “So, so pretty…”

Your face burned. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your chest, your neck. Not from embarrassment. From the intensity of the way he looked at you. Like you were something priceless. Like he wanted to take hours just exploring every inch of you.

His fingertips traced the lace slowly–just once–before he bent down again.

This time, he kissed just above the waistband. Soft, warm, slow. Then lower.

A gentle nibble at the curve of your lower stomach made you jolt, your breath catching in your throat as your hips twitched under his mouth. He kissed the spot soothingly, tongue brushing the skin like an apology–or a tease–and then did it again, just a little to the left.

You whimpered. And he smiled against your skin.

“You’re so warm here,” he murmured, brushing his nose along your lower belly. “S-So soft…”

His hands caressed your thighs, thumbs rubbing gentle circles near the crease where they met your hips. You felt your legs fall even wider at his touch, inviting him in, your fingers tangled tight in the couch cushion now, fighting the urge to cry out from how badly you wanted him.

Bob looked up then, his breath hot against your stomach.

“I… I d-don’t want to rush this part,” He whispered. “I-I want to remember every single second of it.” And then he kissed your belly again–longer this time, slower. His lips parted against your skin, and his breath fanned out in warm, reverent waves as his hands slid down to anchor you by the hips.

He looked like a man starving.

And you were going to be his first meal.

Your bottom lip slipped between your teeth as your hips lifted–barely, instinctively–chasing the heat of his mouth like it was the only thing that could soothe the ache blooming inside you. Bob let out a soft laugh, low and wrecked, the sound curling in his throat like smoke.

“P-Patience,” He murmured, the word half-teasing, half-sincere, as he kissed the sensitive skin just below your belly button again. “I–I wanna savor this…All of you…” You whimpered, the sound involuntary, and he moaned softly in return, like the sound alone had done something to him.

Then his hands slid down.

They curved around your hips again, warm and steady, and you felt the fabric of your underwear catch under his fingers–tugging gently, down your thighs. His mouth followed, lips brushing every newly revealed inch, teeth grazing the soft skin just above your hipbone as he slowly pulled the lace past your knees, then down over your calves. You lifted your legs for him, obedient, trembling, and he pulled them the rest of the way off, tossing the panties to the side without looking.

Bob shifted on the couch again—his body moving fluidly, slowly, like he didn’t want to jostle a single nerve in you. He settled lower, then gently reached for your legs.

“C’mere…” He instructed, voice thick and shaking as his hands slid beneath your knees.

He lifted one leg, then the other, and placed them over his broad shoulders with exquisite care–his palms gliding down the backs of your thighs before curling around to brace you, spreading you open for him. Your breath caught at the position–so exposed, so vulnerable–but Bob didn’t take his eyes off you as he adjusted, settling his weight between the cushions and anchoring himself close to the edge of the couch.

His breath hitched the moment he looked down.

You saw the awe flood his face–the wide, hungry eyes, the parting of his lips, the quick, sharp intake of breath that sounded almost pained.

“C-Can’t believe y-you’re this wet from j-just kissing me…” He commented, voice ragged and hoarse with disbelief.

Your cheeks burned. Your breath came faster. But you didn’t look away.

“I’ve been aching for you, Bob,” you whispered, voice raw with truth, “You have no idea what you do to me…” Bob let out a small whimper, and then his gaze dropped again. His hands smoothed down your thighs, thumbs gliding reverently over the soft skin before slipping outward to spread you wider–just enough to bare you fully to his eyes. He looked like a man who’d found something holy. His lashes lowered briefly. Then he bowed his head.

And kissed you.

Not where you thought he would. Not yet.

He kissed your right thigh–just inside, just above the crease–soft and slow. Then your left. Then lower, right above your knee. And then he returned to the center, placing a final kiss high up between your thighs, right above your aching core.

It was gentle.

Like he was making an offering.

Or a promise.

A cross traced in heat and mouth and meaning.

Then he exhaled–and the warm gust of his breath ghosted across your slickness, and you whimpered again, hips twitching upward. His gaze flicked up to meet yours one last time.

Then he lowered his head…And tasted you.

His tongue didn’t drag.

It pressed in with a short, purposeful stroke–just enough to part you, just enough to collect the slickness waiting there. His mouth sealed around the heat of you, and he groaned. Loud. Shattered. As if the flavor of you had broken him open from the inside.

“God…” He groaned against you. “Y-You taste so s-sweet.” He dove back in.

No more teasing. No more waiting.

Bob’s mouth opened fully, tongue licking again–slow but deliberate–lapping in tight, precise motions as he held your thighs wide around his shoulders. His nose brushed just against your mound as he angled in deeper, and the moment his tongue swiped over your clit–just once–you gasped aloud, back arching off the cushions.

“B-Bob–!”

He moaned again at the sound of his name–drawn out, broken, overwhelmed. His hands held you steady now, fingers digging slightly into your skin as his mouth worked with growing confidence and hunger. He licked again–short strokes, then longer ones. His tongue flattened and dragged through you like he was savoring every drop, then circled your clit with devastating patience, only to pull back and kiss the tender, flushed skin around it again like he was apologizing for the pressure.

You were trembling.

Every touch, every flick of his tongue sent lightning up your spine. You were so sensitive and yet not enough. Your fingers buried in his hair, fisting it tight, pulling him closer. He groaned at that, the vibration of it sending another wave of pleasure through your core.

“P-Please don’t stop,” you gasped, voice cracking.

His answer was another lick–firmer, more focused, his tongue curling at the end to pull a strangled cry from your throat. He latched on then–mouth sealed over your clit, tongue flicking in a rhythm that felt like worship, felt like penance, felt like a man trying to pray with his mouth and be answered through your moans.

And he was.

Because you were moaning for him now, falling apart under the heat and wet and weight of it all. Your thighs quivered, toes curling against the couch cushions, and your voice turned to broken breaths and whimpers, each one gasping his name between sobs of pleasure.

You could feel it building–already, too fast–coiling low and molten in your belly. But you didn’t want to stop him. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Especially when Bob pulled back for just a moment–just long enough to murmur:

“I c-can’t stop, Y/N…Y-You taste too good…”

And then he was back again, eating you with feverish reverence, moaning like the pleasure was mutual, like he was addicted to the slick heat of you and had no plans to come up for air. The wet, obscene sounds of his lips moving against you filled the room, thick and echoing off the walls like music made just for you.

Then his hand moved.

You felt it the moment the heat of his palm slipped from your thigh, slow and steady, like he didn’t want to lose an ounce of pressure from where he held you open for him. But he let go, trailing his palm upward, over the sensitive crease of your hip, then lower…Lower…Until his fingers hovered just beneath the place his mouth was devouring.

You gasped as two thick fingers dragged through your slick heat–teasing, testing, coated instantly in the arousal spilling from you in waves. And then, with the same aching care he’d used to undress you, Bob pushed them in slowly, curling slightly.

Your body jolted.

“Ah–fuck, Bob–!” Your hips lifted off the couch, back arching violently as the stretch filled you in a way nothing else had, in a way that made your head spin and your toes curl and your lungs seize on a sob.

Bob moaned against your clit like your voice alone could shatter him. His fingers stilled for just a moment, buried inside you, and then he pulled back slightly–just enough to look up, lips wet and swollen, chin slick with your arousal.

“Y-You like that?” He asked, breathless, his voice cracking at the end with the weight of it. “D-Does that feel good?”

You couldn’t even form words. You nodded hard, trembling, your hand fisting tighter in his hair.

His lips parted in a dazed smile. “G-Good. That’s… God, you’re so tight around me…” His fingers curled gently inside you, stroking the front of your walls in a slow, searching rhythm–testing, learning, worshipping.

And then he ducked his head again.

And sucked.

Your clit disappeared into the hot, wet seal of his mouth just as his fingers pumped into you again–this time firmer, faster, curling on every thrust. The pressure of his mouth matched the rhythm of his hand, and the combination sent lightning straight through your core.

Your thighs trembled on either side of his head, muscles spasming as you cried out, hips rocking in time with the rhythm he’d set.

His tongue flicked over your clit again–fast and tight and focused–and you keened. Loud. Desperate.

“B-Bob–please–don’t stop–”

He groaned in answer, the sound vibrating right against your nerves. He sucked harder, then released you with a pop and murmured hotly against your skin:

“S-Say it…”

You gasped, hips stuttering.

His fingers curled again. Slipped deeper. Rubbed just right.

“Say it,” He moaned. “T-Tell me how much you l-like it. Please. I-I need to hear it. Please–”

Your head fell back against the cushions, neck bared, eyes fluttering shut as your body began to unravel. You were so close. So, so close.

“I love it,” You sobbed, voice cracking. “God, Bob–I love it–I love the way you’re touching me, please don’t stop, I’m gonna–”

He moaned at your words like they were a blessing–his mouth sealing over your clit again, tongue lashing in tight circles, fingers thrusting in perfect time. He was desperate with it now–mouth and hand working together in a rhythm that shook you to your bones, each movement driving you closer and closer to the edge.

“J-Just like that,” He whispered raggedly between strokes. “W-Want you to come for me…W-Want to feel you break…”

And then he sucked again. Hard.

Your orgasm ripped through you like a wave crashing into the shore.

You cried out–raw, loud, trembling beneath him as your walls clenched around his fingers, your thighs shaking, back arching high off the couch as your climax tore through every nerve ending. He moaned against you, riding it out, never stopping–his tongue slower now, soothing, coaxing you through it as your body spasmed in his hold.

Even when your cries turned to gasps, then to broken sobs, Bob didn’t let go.

His movements stilled inside you, fingers curled as if holding your heartbeat in his palm.

And then, slowly he pulled his mouth away and looked up at you.

Your thighs were still shaking. Your chest was heaving. Your skin was flushed, dewed with sweat, lips parted, eyes glassy with the kind of bliss that rewrote memories.

Bob’s lips were red and swollen, and his chin was glistening with your arousal.

Bob’s chest was rising fast. His lips were swollen, chin slick with you, breath still uneven as he blinked up from between your thighs like he’d just emerged from a dream he never wanted to wake from. His fingers gently slipped from inside you, slow and careful, glistening with the aftermath of your release.

“I-I don’t know w-what you do to taste that good…” he murmured, voice hoarse and reverent. His eyes never left yours as he gently lowered your legs from his shoulders, his hands lingering on your thighs like he didn’t want to let go. “…B-But I’m going to want to t-taste you on a daily basis.”

Your breath caught.

The warmth of his words settled in your stomach like a second pulse. Your fingers flexed where they still clutched the couch cushions, your thighs trembling as he shifted upward, bracing one palm near your hip for balance.

But then…His eyes flicked down.

You followed them–lower, between your bodies–and saw it too.

The thick line of him, straining against his sweatpants. The dark, damp spot blooming near the waistband. The outline of his erection was impossible to miss, thick and long, twitching visibly beneath the soft fabric like he’d been trying to keep still and failing. Your breath hitched. It had been so long… and he was–

Bob saw where you were looking and stilled completely.

“I-I…w-we can stop here,” he said quickly, breath catching, voice laced with concern even as arousal made his cheeks flush a deeper red. “If you’re not ready, I–it’s okay, I swear.”

You looked up at him. The way he was shaking slightly. The way his hair fell messily across his forehead. The way his mouth was still wet with your pleasure.

And something inside you lit up.

“No,” You whispered.

You reached for him–slowly, reverently–your palm resting gently over the hard ridge in his sweatpants.

“I don’t want to stop,” You murmured, fingers curling slightly over the thick outline beneath the fabric. “Not even a little.”

Bob let out a soft, broken breath, but he didn’t move–not yet. You leaned up slowly, pressing your lips to his jaw, letting your voice brush across his skin like silk.

“I want you,” you whispered, softer now. “All of you. I want to feel you inside me. I want to be full of you. I want to fall apart with you.”

Bob made a low, ragged sound in his throat, like he’d been hit. The muscles in his stomach tightened as you continued, voice barely a breath now.

“I want to feel you lose control inside me, Bob. I want to know what it feels like when someone loves me that deeply.” His hesitation shattered.

He surged up and off the couch for only a moment, just enough to strip.

His sweatpants hit the floor, followed quickly by the soft cotton of his boxers.

And when he straightened again, you saw him.

Your breath caught. Your eyes widened. He was…Beautiful. And daunting.

Thick. Long. Flushed red at the tip and leaking, veined and curved with a weight that made your thighs clench in anticipation and awe. Even with how wet you were—how utterly undone you’d already been by his mouth and his fingers—it was clear this would be a stretch.

Bob followed your gaze and immediately blushed, a deep, flustered pink rising up his chest and staining his cheeks.

“A-Are you o-okay?” He asked gently,

“You’re just…Really big. And it’s been a while.” Bob’s brows furrowed slightly, gaze darting back to your face as he lowered himself between your legs again, careful, attentive, bracing one palm beside your shoulder.

You reached up to cradle the back of his neck, grounding him.

“You’re going to have to be a little gentle with me,” you said, your voice low, reverent. “I think I’m going to need to adjust to your size.”

Something in his expression broke–melted.

He looked down at himself, then back at you, and nodded. Slow. Careful. In awe.

“O-Okay,” He nodded, like it was a promise. “I-I’ll go slow. I s-swear.”

You leaned back, spreading your thighs open for him. Welcoming him in. His hands found your knees, slid slowly down to your hips, and he settled into the cradle of your body–bare skin to bare skin, heat meeting heat.

Then his mouth found yours again.

This kiss was different. Wet with the taste of your own release, it was heady, consuming. You could taste yourself on his lips–sweet and a little salty from the sweat of your skin–and the intimacy of it made you whimper into his mouth. Your hands slid up the warm lines of his back, curling over his shoulders as his tongue stroked yours in slow, languid passes.

He tasted like want. Like you, and like something ethereal.

When he pulled back, he kissed your jaw, your cheek, the soft spot beneath your ear, and then whispered:

“A-Are you ready?”

You nodded. Breathless. Eyes wide and glassy. His mouth pressed to your neck again with wet aching lips brushing just beneath your ear before trailing slowly down to the curve of your shoulder. You could feel the tremble in his breath, the way he lingered there, like he was gathering himself.

Then you felt his hand move between your bodies.

Careful. Gentle. Fingers trembling slightly as he reached down and took himself in hand, nudging gently between your thighs.

The weight of him settled against your entrance–hot and heavy, already slick from your arousal. You both gasped at the contact. Bob’s breath stuttered, his forehead pressing to yours for a moment as he adjusted, dragging the head slowly through your folds, coating himself in the evidence of how badly you wanted him.

“I-I just wanna m-make sure it’s easy…” he whispered, voice thin with restraint. He leaned back slightly on one arm, propping himself up so he could see you. His eyes flicked to your face, searching.

Terrified.

Like he was afraid you wouldn’t say anything even if it hurt.

And then slowly he moved his hips and started to push in.

The pressure bloomed instantly. It wasn’t painful, but there was a stretch, heat, and fullness that pulsed through you. You gasped, lips parting around a soft, unbidden sigh as the head of him slipped past that first resistance. Your hips shifted instinctively, your hands curling tighter into the muscle of his arm.

Bob froze immediately. “A-Are you okay?” He asked, his blue irises searching you, wide and worried.

You nodded, breath catching. “Y-Yeah,” You whispered, “I-It’s just a little overwhelming…” He exhaled shakily, chest shuddering, and leaned down to kiss your cheek. Then your nose. Then the corner of your mouth.

“S-Sorry,” He said softly, pressing another kiss just below your eye. “I–I’ll keep going s-slow, promise. Y-You’re doing so good…”

You moaned softly at the praise, your hand sliding up to his bicep again. It was taut beneath your palm, flexing slightly as he braced himself, inching deeper with agonizing care. You felt every centimeter. The stretch, the drag, the slow, steady push. And with each inch, the pressure grew–delicious and deep. He took your hand then–your free one–and brought it to his mouth. Kissed it. Soft and lingering. Then he laced your fingers together, his grip firm but tender as he pressed in deeper still.

“You feel so warm…” He moaned, “Y-You’re so p-perfect Y/N.” You pulsed around him, involuntarily, and he groaned–a low broken sound escaping his chest. He brought his hips forward just a little more, a sigh of relief coming from him, now that he was fully inside you.

Your hips adjusted slightly beneath him. You felt stretched open, filled completely, every inch of you claimed by the weight and warmth of his body, like he was blanketing you from the rest of the world. A whimper broke from your throat.

Bob’s face crumpled. He looked down at you like he was witnessing something sacred. His eyes were wide, glassy, blown dark with awe. You could feel the subtle twitch of his cock inside you–your sound had undone him.

“Y-You okay?” He asked, so softly it barely made it past your ear. You nodded, dazed by all the sensations that flooded your body.

“You…I’ve never felt this full be…Before…It’s just a lot.” You breathed. Bob swallowed hard. He ducked down, pressing his lips to yours with trembling reverence, and then shifted–slipping his arm carefully beneath your neck. He cradled you against him, drawing you closer so that your chests pressed together, your heartbeats stumbling in time.

“I-I’ll hold you,” He murmured. “I’ll kiss you the whole time. J-Just breathe, sweetheart…”

You nodded, lips brushing his, and then he moved.

Slowly. Gently. A careful pull back–just an inch–before he rocked forward again, his hips rolling in a rhythm so soft, so intimate, it felt like poetry being written in the space between your skin.

He kissed you through it.

With every thrust, he pressed a kiss somewhere new–your cheek, your jaw, the swell of your breast. His mouth never stopped. His praise never stopped.

“You’re s-so beautiful…”

“You’re doing s-so good for me…”

“Y-You feel…Incredible…”

His movements stayed slow. Reverent. Deep. You felt each one ripple through you, stretch you, soothe you. You gasped against his lips, moaning softly as he filled you again and again, each thrust brushing the deepest part of you with aching precision.

And every time you whimpered, every time your fingers squeezed his tighter–he whispered your name like it was the only thing that he knew or had in this world.

Bob leaned down and kissed you again.

Not like before.

Not with urgency or hunger or even the heat of building need.

This kiss was slow. Deep. A brush of mouths that didn’t ask, didn’t beg, didn’t even need to speak. It just…Was. The way lips pressed and parted, the way his breath filled your lungs between kisses, the way he moaned softly into you like kissing you was the only prayer he had left to give.

It was the kind of kiss that made time feel irrelevant. That made the ache of your bodies, the rhythm of your hips, the trembling of your hands–secondary to the fact that you were kissing. And that he was still here. Inside you. All around you. Filling every inch of your body and soul.

His forearm shifted beneath your neck, so he was able to cup the back of your head, cradling it, guiding you deeper into the kiss like you were the most fragile thing he was given to protect.

And all the while, he kept moving inside you.

Slow. Measured. So deep it felt like he was shaping himself into the spaces that had always longed for him.

You gasped into his mouth with each thrust, your hips beginning to rise now–slowly, instinctively–meeting his rhythm, chasing it, deepening it. Your thighs bracketed his hips with more urgency. Your walls fluttered around him, slick and desperate, and Bob’s body jolted at the sensation.

“Y-You’re… God, you’re getting even wetter for m-me…” He rasped. He rocked into you again–deep, slow, the drag of him catching every sensitive spot inside you–and you sobbed a sound against his mouth. Your arms wound tighter around him, clutching his back, feeling the muscles work beneath your palms as he moved.

“B-Bob…” You gasped, your voice cracking on his name.

He kissed you again. Tender, open-mouthed. Then down your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your lips.

You were trembling. Your hips rolled in time with his now, your breath stuttering every time he bottomed out.

And then, you said it.

“My God…Bob…” You moaned, voice thick with love and ache, “I fucking love you so much.”

Bob’s eyes fluttered closed for a beat, like the words physically hit him. When he looked at you again, he was smiling–soft and wrecked and full of light.

He kissed you like it broke him.

Then he rocked his hips faster.

Just a little.

Just enough.

You gasped. Your nails dug into his bicep, and your joined hands clenched tighter between your bodies as he began to thrust in a rhythm that built and burned and bloomed.

“You’re mine,” He whispered, breath hot against your mouth. “You’re mine, and I’m yours, and I’m never letting go.”

You broke.

Your walls clenched tight around him, pulsing as your orgasm overtook you–trembling beneath him, crying out his name, breath lost to the stars. Your nails carved crescents into his shoulder. Your thighs locked around his waist. You were unraveling in his arms, and Bob never stopped kissing you.

“Oh fuck–baby, I can feel you,” He groaned, voice strangled. “You’re so tight–so perfect–God, I c-can’t–”

He thrust deep, once. Twice. Then he gasped.

“I wanna cum inside you,” He whispered against your lips, voice low and desperate. “Wanna fill you up, sweetheart. W-Wanna give you all of me–everything I’ve been holding back–please, can I?”

Your breath hitched. You reached up with your free hand and cupped his cheek, eyes wide and full of nothing but love.

“I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

That was it.

He groaned–loud and broken–and buried himself deep as his release tore through him. His body trembled violently, forehead pressed to yours, and his hips bucked once, twice, then stilled as warmth spread inside you. You felt the heat of it–felt him pulse, empty, surrender.

And then–like the final vow of devotion–he bit your shoulder.

Gently. Carefully. A love mark. A claim. His lips soothed the skin after, kissing where his teeth had grazed, his arm wrapped tight around your body like he never wanted to let go.

You were both still breathing hard.

Bob’s body pressed to yours, skin warm and slick with sweat, his chest rising and falling in fast, shallow waves. His forehead was still resting gently against yours, his breath ghosting across your lips like it didn’t know how to stop being close. But eventually, he shifted–just slightly–and pulled back just enough to look at you.

His fingers slipped free from your tangled grip, moving up slowly to cup your cheek instead. He held your face in his palm like you were still fragile, like the weight of his love was something he didn’t want to accidentally bruise. Then he leaned down and kissed you again.

Just a peck this time.

Soft.

Lingering.

Like punctuation at the end of the most beautiful sentence he’d ever written with his body.

When he pulled back, he was smiling. Flushed and glowing.

“Y-You look so beautifully w-wrecked,” He whispered, voice still rough with what you’d just done. “I wish y-you could see h-how you look.”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound half-dazed and full of affection. Your cheeks burned immediately under the praise, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand where it held your face.

“That’s your doing,” You complimented, still breathless. “But my God… I think we should’ve considered where we did this…”

Bob blinked.

And then glanced down to the cushions beneath you.

His ears flushed even redder.

“I-I have a strange feeling,” You continued with a weak smile, “…That we stained the hell out of this couch.”

He looked horrified for all of half a second…And then shrugged, sheepish.

“W-We can always flip the c-cushions…” He mumbled. “I-I’m sure it’s…Able to be hidden.”

You both burst into soft laughter–warm and tangled and helpless. The kind that carried all the release and joy and post-orgasm euphoria you couldn’t put into words. His arms tightened around you again, pulling you in like the laughter had made something loosen in his chest, and then he kissed you.

Again.

And again.

Short, slow, breathless kisses against your mouth, your cheek, your jaw.

“I-I love you so much…” He admitted again, lips brushing your skin between words. “A-And I’m s-so glad you said something.”

Your hand curled over his shoulder. You could still feel him softening inside you, the warmth of him lingering where you were joined. You smiled as your lips found his again, soft and slow and sure.

“Me too,” You murmured into the kiss, with the taste of the beginning of something new lingering between the two of you.

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pyronovas · 5 months ago

Text

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

part one– summary | Two strangers and their internal loneliness attract like magnets. Joel is at a loss, stuck—and you are alone, terrified. In the forced, shared space you find that distraction was the easiest way to cope.

content warning | dddne — DUBCON (this is an ongoing theme for a while), coercion, selective mutism on readers behalf, graphic depictions of violence, injury tw, not quite kidnapping/stockholm but reader has nowhere to go, brief mentions of pregnancy (like literally one line), mentions of starvation due to food scarcity but appearances isn't deeply described, mentions of sa and other relating themes, mean!joel, girthy age gap (reader is 20, joel is 54), joel is riddled with guilt but what's new amirite, oral (m receiving), unprotected piv and creampies, if i missed anything please let me know!

author's note: guys this has been sitting in my drafts finished for almost a year and this new picture has sparked a fucking fire in my docs over this series (another one? yeah i know), this is probably the heaviest thing (for me) i have ever written? so just, be warned. i don't have a timeline for this, i'm literally just vibing it out as i am with most fics lately and if you see a tag you don't like. don't read. you're responsible for the work you consume. a full list of triggers/warning can be found on the masterlist.

word count —10k

part two | part three | strangers masterlist

“She’s a stray, look at her.”

Two pairs of eyes stare back, across the dimly lit room. You’re curled up in the chair, thick leather coat lined with wool draping your shoulders and your toes curled around the edge of the seat, hands balled up near your chest as you savor the warmth.

It was the first time in a month that you’ve seen a fire—sure, you’ve tried to build one. But, you never quite got it and usually ended up burning yourself in the process and added onto the litany of other scars left as memories and reminders on your skin.

Survival—while you weren’t good at it, you did what you had to. Pure, primal instinct. Find shelter, find food, get safe. Don’t die.

Your nose was bloody, lips chapped and cracking, running on a few hours of sleep over the last several days. Place to place, you had to keep running. If you didn’t, they would catch you, surely.

Your muscles ache as they had a moment to relax, legs sore from walking miles and miles, the lingering cuts and scabs that hadn’t healed from your own clumsiness and a mix of being at the end of a blade of a man with too much pride to allow you to damper the moment.

You licked your lips and your eyes flitted away, staring out the window and counting the string of illuminated, plastic orbs hanging on the house across from the one you were currently being interrogated in—the men were still looking at you. Your outer stoic expression hid away the trembling fear you kept inside. They were waiting for you to speak.

That never came.

“You got a name?”

You shake your head, eyes quickly averting in a different direction.

The two men were similar in build—tall and stocky, large and filled out bodies built of muscle and years of hard labor, older based on the grays littering their well-kempt hair and trimmed beards. One has hair that curls just beyond his ears, a warmer brown than the other mans.

They both pull the same expression—complete and utter confusion.

Nearly identical. Oh, they’re brothers.

If not, they sure did bicker like it.

“She’s pullin’ our fuckin’ leg, Tommy.”

Your ears perk up, assigning the name to a face. He seemed softer than the other man, less weathered and guilt-ridden. It wasn’t like you knew anything about these men, but you’ve learned to identify as much as you could within a couple looks.

Figure them out.

What do they want? What can you give them?

Tommy rounds the table separating you from him, a safe, protective distance as he presses his palm into the chair pushed under the table, fingers curling around the top.

“Listen, you’ve gotta give us something.” Tommy explains, “Given the shape of you, I’m tryin’ to avoid the whole vetting process we go through. We don’t take kindly to raiders or tricks or people looking to cause trouble.”

“We ain’t even got space for her—”

Tommy holds his hand up to the other man, eyes still locked on you.

“Look at me,” His voice is solid, demanding.

But, he’s not yelling. You turn meekly, gripping for the jacket when it slips from your shoulders. Your clothes were torn, jagged edges barely hanging on in some places. Garments soiled and unwashed for weeks and god—you fucking reek. You can smell it, you know they can smell it.

You were a stray feral cat that had scurried up to their doorstep and passed out from exhaustion and while one was attempting to take pity, the other was ready to crush your skull under the weight of his boot.

“Can you talk?” He asks, eyebrows raising slightly in question.

Your tongue rolls against the front of your teeth and you switch your gaze between the two men before shaking your head, a barely noticeable gesture if they hadn’t been staring you down.

You were being truthful—you couldn’t speak. It wasn’t like you’d had your tongue cut out and were ridden with the choice, but quiet has been the only thing that has ever brought you peace.

Familiar phrases echo loudly in your mind.

Don’t speak, be a good girl.

Seen, not heard.

Speak and I will rip your fucking tongue out.

So, no—you can’t talk.

“We’ve got families comin’ in—men and women that are willing to be a hell of a lot more cooperative than this—”

“Joel,” Tommy warns with a voice that shakes the room, causing you to jerk in response and this time he is holding his hand out to you, palm raised as if to ease you down, “we can give her a fair chance, just like we do the others. Grab a piece of paper and pencil,” He points toward a desk tucked against a far wall and Joel's heavy boot stomps follow Tommy’s orders before he’s returning, slapping the items back down on the table and taking a similar stance to Tommy.

You were sandwiched between the two men as they surrounded you, shaking as you took the pencil in your hand and gripped it, fumbling for the paper as you used your fingertips to drag it close.

“Where did you come from?” Tommy asks.

You remember the dark room, chains and screams—blood-curdling screams. One meal a day, if you are good. Constant pacing in the halls, a building in the city holding a much darker secret in the quarantine zone you had been kidnapped and forced to take home in.

Bad place, you write in sloppy handwriting.

Tommy leans to look and his brow furrows, subverting toward Joel who shakes his head at you.

“No—state, city. Anything. Bad place ain’t gonna cut it, kid.”

Kid.

They’ve never called you a kid before.

Men like him—he wasn’t them, but they all start to look the same after a while.

Salt Lake? Old QZ in the city.

Joel knows that place had crumbled years ago and quarantine zones were nearly non-existent now. Taken up by people trying to start anew, much like Jackson, but more often than not it was raiders—the filthy kind of people who took without asking and killed first, asked questions never.

He couldn’t blame them, but the handful of years in Jackson has taught him a new approach. It wasn’t his favorite, but it allowed him to sleep easier at night, usually.

“You left on your own?” Joel asks, speaking before Tommy could, likely ready to ask the same question. His insipid tone makes your skin crawl.

You chewed at your bottom lip and your eyelashes touched your cheeks in a flurry of blinks as you scribbled out the one word onto the paper.

Escaped.

The alarm is immediate, Joel’s head snapping up as you push the paper toward the middle of the table and allow the pencil to roll with it.

“Tommy, can I speak to you for a minute?” Joel’s voice is harsh, not nearly the question he posed it as.

Tommy rolls his shoulders and walks around the back of your chair, following Joel into the hallway, hushed voices shocking the tension back into your body as you curl into yourself, crossing your arms over your chest and allowing your eyes to scan the room.

Memorize, categorize—this was one of the men’s houses, of whom you weren’t sure for the moment.

But, it was stocked with personal items and supplies, a bassinet shoved away in the living room and as you turned that way you noticed a pair of eyes peek around the doorframe leading that way.

A girl, young—not much younger than yourself but she is noticeably more child-like, curious.

Her shoes squeak against the hardwood startling you both and suddenly Joel is reentering the room and directing his voice toward her.

“Go on home,” He speaks to her, his expression washed-out and tired, “don’t linger ‘round here, kiddo.”

“I’m the one who found her,” She seems to take an angle of defense, coming into view. Clothes that hung off her body, not well-fitting and clearly second hand but more intact than your own, “I was on watchtower duty with Dina—”

“Ellie, this doesn’t concern you.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, walking closer regardless of Joel’s words and tossing a knife on the table.

Your knife—the black-handled switchblade closed shut. It still had old, dried blood caked on the handle. It could have been your own, but that was just a lucky guess. That thing had been your lifeline for weeks, moments away from a terrible night of near starvation or a desperate attack on you, it helped keep you safe.

You instinctively reach for it but Joel is quick—unnaturally, as he curls it into his hand and gives you a look of warning.

“This,” He holds it up, the switchblade dwarfed between his large, calloused fingers, “ain’t yours.”

Your lips pull into a thin line, eyes falling to the floor.

Tommy’s tongue clicks against his cheek as he rounds the corner, fingers rubbing at his chin as he paces, his face deep in thought and contemplation as he back steps toward the edge of the table near you, leaning into it and crossing one foot over the other. His hands are tucked away in his pockets.

“That place you escaped—” He looks up toward Joel briefly before his gaze lands on you again, “they gonna come lookin?”

You could tell the truth—you weren’t sure.

You weren’t the only girl that was locked away in the central tower of that city, the only person who was being used so inhumanely for the needs of others in the most heinous of ways.

Selfish, sick and demented, men who got off on that desperate need for power and control.

So, instead and out of self-preservation, you lie.

Shaking your head, Tommy takes a small breath and nods.

“Alright—I’m trustin’ you. Still, we’ll beef up security for a bit, and add a few extra patrols. You need a place to stay and we’re gonna give you that. But, we got rules.”

“Rule number one–you earn this,” Joel holds up the knife again before it’s tucked away in his pocket for safekeeping. Your eyes drag toward his pocket, staring daggers into the material.

“You earn your keep—I’m going to give you some time to settle, but eventually we’re going to assign you to a station. You work or you leave, there’s no other way about it.” Tommy continues, “And while I’m more inclined to give you a space of your own, we’re all full up singles and giving you a townhome…well, I’m not so sure that is the best idea.”

You weren’t going to argue—not that you had the will to speak up for yourself now, not when both of their presence were so oppressive. You nod obediently and look over at Joel who is still lingering, like an ugly guard dog ready to bare his teeth at a moment’s notice.

“I’d keep you here, but with my situation I’m not putting anything at risk,” Tommy says and you suddenly realize that this was his home. You weren’t that slow-witted. He had a family, something you were never familiar with.

But, you understood.

“So, you’ll be staying with Joel.”

It clearly wasn’t his choice, based on the way his teeth clench, jaw flexing as he crossed his arms, fabric stretching over broad shoulders and thick, muscled biceps. His piercing gaze makes you shrink into your chair, if that were possible.

Your nose scrunches slightly, in a faint show of disgust but you quickly collect yourself.

“I’m also gonna suggest you see our doctor, get those bruises checked out. Make sure you don’t have any broken bones and they can stitch up any—”

It forces you into a panic, heart beating rapidly in your chest as the jacket drops from your shoulders, fingers reaching out to wrap around Tommy’s wrist—and, like you had suspected, Joel is quick to grab at your own wrist, ready to tackle you to the ground. It wouldn’t take much given your size difference—he was just...massive, threatening in a way you've never felt. Joel could snap you like a twig, but his restraint is there.

Tommy notices the panic in your eyes—you weren’t trying to attack. You were attempting to communicate in a moment of worry, he nodded and waved Joel off, prying your hand from his arm gently and placing it against your knee.

“Alright, no doctor.” Tommy settles, “For now.”

You slump back and blink away the burning sting of tears that filed your eyes.

“Get her settled in,” He tells Joel, “make sure she eats.”

Joel doesn’t nod, but he moves, backing out of your way and giving you space.

You move slowly, shaking the jacket off your shoulders before Tommy is shaking his head and grabbing hold of the lapel, pulling it back up. You jerky slightly, averting your body from his sudden touch.

“Sorry–just…keep it,” Tommy tells you—it was a look of pure pity, his eyes softening around the naturally hard edges, “I’ll have my wife go searching for some clothes tomorrow, get you out of those and into something clean and better fitting.”

You follow behind Joel to the door, a careful distance as you linger, bracing yourself for the cold crunch of snow under your bare feet.

“And brother,” Tommy calls out—there it was. Joel twists the knob and looks over his shoulder, “don’t go scaring her more than she already is.”

You weren’t sure if it was even possible to feel true fear anymore.

The walk is short, but painful. Small winces that get caught in your throat as you quicken your pace to keep up with Joel, a slight limp to your walk from the bruising on your ribs and the tinge of pain in your hips and pelvis—your body has relaxed for too long, it felt brittle.

You hurt all over, but lately, you could will it all to go numb if you tried hard enough. Disconnect, disassociate, and disappear from your own body.

Eventually, you do meet his front door and you’re enveloped with warmth in a matter of seconds, making your way inside hesitantly as Joel holds the door open. He hadn’t spoken a word since you left the other house, fingers gripping hard on the pair of gloves tucked into his left hand. You look around curiously, the house shrouded in darkness aside from the fireplace ignited and crackling in the far room to your left. Joel moves quietly behind you, placing his belongings on the kitchen counter, but the switchblade is still tucked away in his front pocket, you know that much.

He plucks at a note folded under a magnet on the fridge, reading it to himself silently.

“Come on, kiddo,” He mumbles to himself, realizing it must be from the girl—sounding exasperated as he balls up the paper and tosses it in the trash. He favored that word, but you can’t tell if it’s just a habit.

You weren’t a kid, not even close. It felt patronizing when it was aimed your way.

He eyes you carefully, sighing as he presses a hand against the kitchen counter.

“I’m settin’ you up in the basement—none of the other rooms are in good enough condition.” Joel explains, speaking to you in the most civil way he has all night, “nothin’ is off limits except my room. And Ellie’s. She’s out back but you don’t get to go snoopin’ around. Got it?”

You shrug the jacket off but hold it close to your chest, arms crossing over each other as you hug the thick material. You nod slowly.

“Really, nothing?” Joel asks.

All it takes is a look, eyes bleary and sorrowful.

“Go on,” He nods, “there’s a bed down there, a shower, a change of clothes—”

You quickly scurry off, overwhelmed by the intensity of his unwavering gaze and the sound of his voice as it becomes more and more muffled the deeper you trek down the stairs, careful steps on your torn up feet, he seems to finally give up when your feet hit the concrete floor.

It’s still warm here, but not nearly as much. A small rectangular window sits right above the old bed, a mattress on a rusted metal frame that looked like it barely had any life left in it. But, it was an actual bed. Not boxes and a bedsheet, a makeshift pillow made from your dirtied clothes to give the ache in your neck some much needed relief.

There was a small room in the corner, a bathroom that barely managed to fit the necessities you needed—but it was still something. A shower, a toilet, a sink. A mirror that you couldn’t even bother to look in, making your way around the room you find the stack of clean clothes and towels on the coffee table in front of a worn couch, threads pulling apart at the seams on the arms.

You crouch, despite the screaming protest from your body and sift through the pile. A clean shirt, a clean pair of sweats. Underwear—you haven’t had the luxury of clean undergarments in months, often finding that going without was easier. A lump burns in your throat.

You move slowly, tucking the jacket over the edges of the mirror to cover it and placing the clothes on the closed toilet seat as you struggle for a few minutes to figure out the shower, jolting at the touch of hot water when it shoots out from the spout above.

You strip carefully, shirt pulled over your head with a small wince before your fingers are dipping into the waistband of your bottoms, slipping them down your hips and allowing them to drop silently to the floor before you step out of them—the moment the water touches your skin you regret it, the dirtied water pooling at your feet.

You cry, sob under the spray of water and scrub away every inch of dirt and grime and blood from your body–it hurts, it fucking hurts but you can’t find it in you to stop. You could scrub the skin raw, open up old wounds and make the fresh ones worse, but you’ll settle for red and welted skin. A mix of re-opened gashes and cuts flushed out by the stream of water and your maniacal scrubbing, but at least you didn’t smell like the stench of your own bodily fluids and weeks of built up dirt on your skin, nights of sleeping on wet ground in the woods.

There is a moment of running your fingers through your hair that feels nice, hair still slightly matted from the lack of care but it feels cleaner, as much as you could manage before your arms gave out from exhaustion. You savor the warmth until the water runs cold, heavy footsteps above you shaking the dust from the ceilings.

Right. You’re not alone. Not anymore.

But, that didn’t bring you comfort either.

You turn off the water and reach for the towel, allowing yourself to get dressed at a careful pace—they must be Joel’s clothes, a plain white shirt that was soft to the touch but clearly worn and a pair of black sweats that had seen better days, the color warped and faded. You manage to slip the socks of your feet with one stumble, hand pressing against the sink to catch yourself.

The jacket remains hung and you flick off the light before taking space on the bed, palms pressed out against the clean, linen sheet, the comforter tucked away against the wall as you laid down, body protesting the entire way.

Eyes squeezed shut, you grit your teeth and pull the comforter over your shoulders.

You try to sleep that night, but it is futile. The light hanging above your bed flickers occasionally—every fifteen minutes to be exact, it had done it thirty two times that night.

–

It never fails—just as you feel yourself drifting off every early morning, Joel is awaking you with the sound of his heavy footsteps and a bag of food. Sometimes a tray or plate. It varied.

You’ve been here three full days now, not counting the night they had taken you in.

You hadn’t left the room, hadn’t asked for a single thing.

Joel was starting to believe that your tongue was cut out—that you were robbed of the ability to speak entirely, but he knows that isn’t the case when he watches your tongue peek out as you take a bite of the scrambled eggs he had grabbed from the town dining hall for you.

You haven’t seen an authentic plate of food in months, and with proper silverware—having half the mind to dig in with your hands before Joel passes you the fork. It was real, warm food. Your stomach growled with greed as you shoveled the food into your mouth quietly.

Joel watches you with a strange look, not with judgment but a genuine curiosity that he doesn’t act on with questions or crude statements. He waits until you're done, leaning against the door that leads to the rest of the house, only coming near when you press the plate to the floor with a soft clang.

And it continues like that for a couple days—occasional Joel will bring more than food; a book, a magazine, a set of cards. He never explicitly acknowledges the items, but he does leaves it behind. You can’t bring yourself to leave the room, in fear of what you faced outside of here. Even just a few steps into Joel’s kitchen and it made your stomach twist and the bile stir.

Sometimes the food comes in only paper bags, a few at a time and things that didn’t need to be kept cold because when Joel had to go away on patrol he couldn’t watch over you, even if he felt the need to.

He wasn’t sure if you were going to try and make a break for it, escape over the walls.

He wouldn’t stop you, wouldn’t blame you either. But, the state you're in, he can’t see you surviving more than a day. Bruises were healing, cuts were scabbed up and scarred over. He never tended to your wounds, always allowed you to do that on your own. At least, he assumed you were. You’ve learned to not scamper away as much, taking things from him with minimal contact and a small nod, sometimes allowing a small gesture of thanks with a hand on your chin that you bring downwards.

Joel only scowls his brow and looks at you confused.

“You stink.” Joel says one day, out of the blue over dinner as he watched by the doorway.

You stop chewing mid-bite and look at him.

“Have you showered at all since the first day?”

Impishly you look away toward the bathroom.

It felt selfish, to overuse the hot water and indulge in the pleasure of the heat—always used to cold showers and the bare minimum of scrubbing yourself down in thirty seconds. It was routine: in, wash, out. There was no enjoyment.

You shake your head after a while and push your plate aside, feeling your stomach turn.

“Go,” He nods as he steps toward you, swiping up the plate in his right hand and leading the way toward the bathroom, noting the way the coat was still hung over the mirror. He doesn’t comment on it, but he nods his head in the direction of the shower.

You look at him slightly unsure, “If I have to force you in there I will,” He says, but there isn’t any real bite behind, although the look in his eyes tells a different story, “there’s plenty of hot water, use it.”

But…

The word lingers in your head.

“I’ll have Ellie grab you some new clothes, somethin’ that fits better.” Joel tells you, “Just get in the goddamn shower.”

You brush past him quietly, beginning to undress yourself without warning which alarms Joel.

“Oh—well, shit. I mean after I left.” Joel turns away and his descending footsteps eventually fade and despite how hard it is to get your body to work, or even move, you shower.

You grab the unused towel hanging over the barely clinging metal rack nailed into the wall, wrapping it around your body securely, bare feet pressing against the ground and for the first time in a while, it doesn’t hurt. It’s sore, but it doesn’t sting as harshly as it did.

There’s a suspicious lack of clothing—your dirty ones nowhere in sight, no clean ones either. In fact, the room was practically bare of all trash and old clothing. You ignore the dull pain at your hip, a wound still on the mend and step around the corner of the doorway carefully and hear the sound of footsteps above you, the soft hum of voices until one fades, a door closing following in the wake of the newly discovered sounds.

The door is open. Joel left the door open.

You stop several feet away, staring out into the hallway, the house was dim aside from the bright glow of flames burning in the fireplace. You feel so strongly to run toward the door and slam it closed, clamber back into bed—fearful that if you left the room then this bubble of safety and protection would be broken. But, there was the small voice in the back of your mind screaming to take a step forward, and then another, until your fingers were lingering over the doorknob and pushing it open further.

You take a step out, only to be met with the chest of someone else running into your arm clutching at the towel wrapped around your body—it couldn’t be anyone but Joel, and of course, you’re right.

He’s staring at you emotionless, aside from the subtle acknowledgment that you had listened to him.

“Got you a couple sets—something to sleep in, something to wear during the day.”

He doesn’t elaborate, handing the clothes over into your empty hand. You’re halfway in the process of dropping your towel before Joel’s hand is wrapping around your wrist, forcing you to stop.

“Stop doin’ that,” Joel commands, nodding toward the bathroom behind you, peeking over your shoulder in that direction before looking back at him with wide, startled eyes, “privacy—do you understand that?” His voice is slow, almost patronizing.

Privacy wasn’t lost on you—but it had long been a foreign concept.

You nod.

“Then go, get dressed.” He reprimands, pointing down the hall, a different bathroom then you’ve seen before.

You scurry away with the clothes clutched to your chest, catching a quick glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you step inside the room—it was startling, having not seen your appearances in weeks, days and days of constant guessing, wondering how the time starved in the Wyoming forest had damaged you.

Physically, mentally, emotionally.

It had taken a toll and it was even more visible than you expected.

You looked rundown, eyes tired and sorrowful. It was pathetic. You tried not to linger for long, noting the appearance of your body and moving on—having to look back at yourself in the mirror was far worse than being attached to it.

The clothes Joel gave you were thin, fleece pajamas that felt soft to the touch and kind against your still sensitive skin. You exit the bathroom quietly and Joel is nowhere to be found in your immediate vicinity, half-expecting him to be waiting outside the bathroom door. You edge back toward the basement door before you spot him on the couch in the living room, the back of his head and broad, stocky shoulders the only glimpse of him you have.

He seems relaxed, staring off into space as he looks down.

You don’t know where the pull comes from, but it wraps around the ache in your chest and pulls you closer, toward him. The creak in the floorboard gives you away.

“Don’t sneak around,” Joel says, “makes people anxious ‘round here.”

Makes him anxious, clearly.

After a moment of silence, he extends the invitation to join him.

“If you’re cold, sit—got room if you want to sit somewhere closer to the fire.”

He did have quite the sizable living room, a couple couches and a few arm chairs surrounding the otherwise bare living space.

You can see the softness on his face under this light, his eyes drawing up to look at you while his head is still tilted down, his hands rubbing away at his stiff knuckle joints. He keeps flicking his eyes between the two—his hands, you, then back again.

If he has something he wants to ask, he doesn’t.

You’re silent as you avoid each piece of furniture all together and quietly make your way between his outstretched legs, a perfect place to tuck yourself between as you kneel.

Thank him, he deserves it.

He didn’t strike you as a shy man, but you’ve done this plenty of times before—it was really no different, but this was more of a silent offer than the usual demands you were faced with.

Joel doesn’t move right away, doesn’t even react.

Until you touch him, your hands gliding over his knees, his thighs, leaning forward to nuzzle your face against his thigh as you pull at his zipper—again, his fingers wrap around your wrist. But, no words follow. You make eye contact with him then, feeling at your most confident and bold when he looks so worried, frightened—the deep feeling of intrigue buried underneath it all.

You pull away from his grip and wrap your fingers around his waistband, pulling slowly until he moves, wordlessly he responds by using his thumbs to push his jeans far enough down that you can comfortably press your hands over the obvious bulge in his boxers—it wasn’t hard or straining, but the touch of your hand against his cock had it growing to that point quickly, his eyes downcast and half-lidded.

It was like he didn’t want to look, but couldn’t look away. You took it in stride and pulled at his boxers until you could tug his cock free of the confines, watching it spring up against his stomach—thick in every sense of the word and large, much more than any man who’s ever claimed you. Pretty, almost, if you could consider it that. He’s well-kempt and clean which was nice, unusual given the time you lived in now. More importantly, you feel your mouth watering at the prospect of taking him inside, pressing your tongue flat against the tip and swallowing him down.

That has never happened before.

You settled between his legs more comfortably, raising up on scabbed up knees and dragging your fingers delicately along the shaft and down to his balls, watching them tighten at the attention you showed before you’re leaning down to take his cock into your mouth without much of a warning. Joel shifts slightly and you ancitpate him to push you away.

But, really, you just wanted to thank him. It was the only way you’ve learned how.

He breathes out softly, the first sound you’ve heard since you touched him.

You drag your tongue from base to tip, hand pressed his cock flat against it as you circle around the tip before dipping back down, slipping back into the motions so easily it feels mind-numbing.

Your eyes flutter as you force yourself to take him as deep as possible, nearly gagging before you pull away, catching a slight glimpse of him behind bleary, wet eyes.

His own are wild, hands pressed flat against the cushion, mouth only slightly ajar. But, he won’t look at you. Only the action, your hand wrapped around his shaft, the other pressed against his thigh and he fights off that urge to touch you, tilting his head back against the couch as you continue with a sudden fervor you didn’t have before.

You bob effortlessly, taking him just near the point of impossible before you’re pulling away, repeating that until you can feel that faint throb, that familiar pulse as his balls tighten with his impending orgasm and just as he reaches for your hair, ready to pull you away, you fight against it. He comes in your mouth with a low groan, gripping onto the surface of the couch in desperation.

When the pulsing finally calms you pull away, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand and standing slowly, adjusting your clothes where they had shifted out of place slightly before taking a silent seat on the couch beside him, laying down and curling up into yourself.

You hear the dull sounds of him readjusting his pants, zipping them, shuffling slightly as he clears his throat and suddenly there is a throw being draped over you—a soft, sherpa lined blanket that immediately bathes you in warmth.

Joel catches your gaze as you blink up at him, pausing briefly to acknowledge how lost you seem—in need of guidance. It settles in him then, dawns on his mind that this was what you were used to, wherever you had escaped from was far worse than anything he’s ever suspected. He tucks the blanket in gently and double checks the locks on the door. You’re already asleep by the time he passes by, leaning over the back of the couch to check on you.

Joel feels the guilt creep in slowly.

He should have stopped, he knows he should have. But, he didn’t.

Why? He couldn’t explain it.

The walk to his bedroom seems miles away and when he finally reaches it he’s closing the door with a dignified sigh, immediately making his way toward the en-suite bathroom and undressing his clothes—it was his second shower that day but he didn’t give a shit.

He needed a moment to reconvene in his mind…or escape.

Really, he just needed a distraction. It was selfish need.

The clothes pile up on the tile floor as he turns on the water, the stream shooting out of the shower head in quick spurts before it levels out and Joel steps inside, head first as the water soaks his hair, face, traveling down his body.

It wasn’t the first time he’s allowed his hand to travel to his cock within the privacy of this bathroom—a man with no one to keep his bed warm at night, or morning–or ever, really. He’s learned to cope, release some of the built up anger and frustration even if for a brief moment.

But, this was different. Because the only thing he could think of was you. The meek looks you offered, dumb-founded and lost, like a young gazelle lost in the woods. He can only imagine, suspect what you’ve been through, but the look you had given him while you took him into your mouth was something Joel couldn’t describe.

There was no clear acknowledgement, no hard line of yes and no. The lines were blurred and he doesn’t know why, but he was okay with it for a moment. Truly, you’d had all the power in the moment anyways—Joel was helpless under the touch of your mouth, a goner the second your hand touched his skin.

He tugs at his cock lazily and with no real purpose, knowing if he tried to come again so soon it wouldn’t happen, but for the brief moment of peace, he imagines you there, kneeling before him with the spray of water over your face and his cock buried in your mouth, puffing out your cheeks and how you would be so willing to do whatever he’d ask.

Obedience—that was the one thing that stuck out. You always listened when he spoke.

He could help you, he thinks. Heal you.

Or, he would fuck up and make it far worse.

He wasn’t sure if it was even worth the trouble.

The next morning you wake to the startling clang of pans behind you, shooting upright on the couch and snapping your head toward the kitchen to catch a glimpse of Joel’s back, shoulder blades stretched and outlined under the thin material of his shirt, clinging to his back snuggly. There’s a savory smell that breaches your nose–meat, potatoes, something of a near feast as you spot the few plates on the table stacked with various other foods.

Joel seems to sense your eyes, turning his body slightly to look behind him and your gaze quickly averting down, playing with a loose thread on the blanket as he plates the remaining food.

“Beginning of the month,” Joel explains, “usually the only time we get to eat like this.”

Joel swiftly decided that taking the route of pretending nothing ever happened was the easiest, brushing off the events of the previous night with a point to the seat near the kitchen island.

“C’mon, dig in,” He invites, “Ellie should be up soon and lord knows that kid doesn’t care about savin’ enough for the rest of us. Fill up while you can.”

Your footsteps are quiet and slow as you approach the island, the long sleeves tucked under your fingers mid-palm, crossing your arms over your chest as you look at the cacophony of items. Not sure where to start or end. Joel reaches for a plate and points to the items in order from left to right, plating a couple items with every nod you give him.

He was an enigma of a man—so brute and intimidating at a glance and he was when he needed to be, but this was a soft crack in a hard exterior, years of built up trauma intertwined with a rough world dependent on the strongest to survive. It had to level out at some point–and here that big strong man was, making up your plate and plopping a piece of bacon down before you impishly nod your head toward the pile of bacon.

“More?”

You nod quickly and Joel feels a subtle grin tug at his face, nodding in agreement with your choice as he gives you another piece.

You eat in silence—chewing slowly and methodically as you listen to the quiet, roving chatter of people outside, neighbors readying for their day. It was a community, a town, well-oiled and rare in this world.

“Are you done hiding down in the basement?” Joel asks eventually, peeking up from his plate as he leaned against the counter adjacent the island, “Eventually you’re gonna have to talk to Tommy, get you set up with a job.”

Right. Work. Sustenance. You had to carry your own weight.

“You can talk here, you know?” Joel tells you, “You can talk, can’t you?”

Your eyes flick away briefly, avoiding the question.

“Let me try that again,” Joel clears his throat and tosses his empty plate behind him in the sink, fingers curling around the edge of the counter beside him, “Can’t?”

You shake your head.

“Won’t?”

A jerky nod as you push your own plate away.

“I’m not tryin’ to pry or force it—jus’ think it may cause problems eventually.”

You make a motion of writing with your hand shyly, hoping he’ll understand.

Joel nods jerkily and turns to rummage through a drawer in the kitchen, filled with a miscellaneous amount of junk, finding a pad of paper and a pencil and handing it over to you.

Not scared. Of you.

Joel watches as you scribble the words down and furrows his brow.

“No, I’m not sayin’ you are—”

You scratch out the words and start a new line.

If we talked, they hit.

They?

Joel doesn’t voice the word but you see the confusion on his face.

They do nice things and we thank them. The men. If we didn’t, they would hurt us. Or kill if they were angry enough.

You scrunch your nose up slightly, looking disgruntled. Joel watches your hand shake as you continue—it didn’t help to be vague, but that fear they had instilled in you lingered like a dark, suffocating cloud.

I grew up in that place.

Bad place, Joel reminds himself. That was what you had told him and Tommy.

“People—they ain’t like that here—” Joel says, but you’re already scribbling before he can finish.

You don’t know that.

Ellie disrupts the quiet conversation with her loud entrance through the back door, looking tired as she tugged her jacket over her shoulders, pack already slung over her back.

“You’re up early,” Joel notes, preemptively handing Ellie a slice of bacon.

“Jesse wants to get an early start for the patrol since that big storm is supposed to hit tomorrow.”

Joel nods, noting how you looked between the pair curiously.

Ellie seems to notice you’re staring too, offering a casual, “Hi,” around the bacon her teeth tore into.

“Right, shoulda remembered to tell you,” Joel looks over at you, “we’ll both be gone for a few days, longer patrols with all the extra ones Tommy’s pushing at.”

“Seems pointless,” Ellie shrugs, “but…whatever.”

“You get goin’,” He tells Ellie, “I’ll catch up.”

Ellie chews at her breakfast indifferently, nodding in response as she departs, the front door closing gently behind her.

Joel gathers the dishes quietly but you feel the urge to move, helping him gather the rest of the dirty dishes and pile them into the sink. You don’t ask and he doesn’t either, but as he washes, you dry, and it feels normal.

Maybe the only normal experience you’ve had since you ended up here.

You couldn’t place your finger on him, though—Joel. One moment he was kind, talkative and curious, willing to take his time to figure out what he could about you. But, other times you felt like you were a stray dog that popped up at his doorstep and refused to leave. So, now he was forced to house you, feed you, take care of you.

So, obviously, it only made sense to take care of him.

He’d enjoyed it the first time.

Joel’s drying his hands on a towel you hand him before you’re reaching for his belt, metal clinking against metal and you tug, but you’re stopped short, his hand wrapping tightly around your wrist.

“The fuck are you doing?” Joel asks, shoving your hand away forcefully.

But, it’s the clipped, peaking anger in his tone that forces you back further.

You blink away the quickly forming tears in your eyes and retreat quickly, mouth hung open slightly in shock, frightened at the almost instantaneous shift in Joel’s voice. His face. His entire demeanor—you’ve crossed into dangerous territory, like mindless prey.

You’re amiss to the way Joel’s jaw clenches at his sudden outburst, internally shaming himself for the strain in his jeans at even just the thought of you touching him again—the willingness and eagerness of your actions, how long you’ve been conditioned into this.

He doesn’t call after you, though—only stopping by the house later that afternoon before he left to set you up with enough meals and changes of clothes to last you those three days. A knock on the door startles your timid heart, forcing you to your feet and by the time you reach the door he’s nowhere in sight. You’re thankful for that, actually. You weren’t sure if you could even look at him, fearful of the disappointment.

There was a small note folded on top of the pile placed on the floor, unfolded with a careful touch, it read—House is all yours.

Three days, all alone.

You couldn’t bring yourself to leave that basement once.

–

When Joel returns home it’s late and he’s toeing his boots off at the door the moment he steps inside and notes the lack of warmth—a fireplace unused and the door to the basement closed shut. Ellie had already wandered off with Dina for the night, one less thing he had to worry about. He was more appreciative that she’d finally broken out of her shell and actually made a few good friends.

He ignites the fireplace, looking over his shoulder every few seconds waiting, wondering if you were waiting in anticipation—those curious eyes tracking every movement he made. He’d picked up some dessert from the mess hall on the way to his house, selfishly wanting to keep it for himself but he feels that tug, that push to extend the olive branch.

He needed to clear up this…confusion. Try—he could try, at least.

“Sorry, I actually didn’t want you to suck my dick.”

“I enjoyed it but we shouldn’t do that again.”

“I know it’s wrong, but I didn’t want to stop you.”

Joel knows he sounds ridiculous in his head, but he was at a loss.

He’d stopped you because it was wrong–but not because he didn’t want you to.

Joel doesn’t even consider the idea that you may already be asleep for the night, pulling out the small box of dessert and a fresh pair of clothes he’d picked up alongside the food when he checked his horse back in at the stable, picking up a few other spare supplies.

You hear him before you see him when he opens the door, those heavy boot steps thunk, thunk, thunk against the floor and you lie still, staring at him meekly as he approaches the couch adjacent to the bed in a near corner, resting the items on the table and taking a seat silently.

“You hungry?” He asks casually and your stomach growls on command despite your unwillingness to move, blanket tucked under your chin.

He can see you shake your head slightly, easy to miss if he wasn’t staring you down.

“We need to talk,” Joel says, your eyes jolting to him suddenly, “about the other night.”

He jerks his head over, silently asking you to join him on the couch—he’s leaned back but not comfortable, his hands resting in his lap, much like the position you caught him in that night.

When you don’t move, he sighs. A deep, soft sound that has you turning over in bed to face the wall.

“I’m not asking.”

Heavy footsteps follow, the sounder closer and closer, his boots scuffing against the ground before they stop and you can feel him at your back, the whole of the bed shifting as he rests a hand on a decorative knob of the arched bed frame, creaking under his weight.

“Sit up,” He says again, “come on.”

There’s an irritation in his tone that tells you he isn’t leaving until you do, pushing up slowly and crawling to the side with your hands. The last lingering wound stings as you move, a gash on your lower back, toward your hip that you had haphazardly sewn up a few weeks ago with some sewing thread and a needle. It still hadn’t healed like the rest of your wounds. The last remaining physical memory of that time, aside from the scars.

Joel tilts his head to the side and back, noticing as you squeeze your eyes shut in pain and irritation.

“You’re still hurtin’,” It's a statement, he knows it—he can see it on your face.

You shake your head unconvincingly.

“Let me see.”

You shake again, backing into a corner but Joel is quick, he follows and leans down, pulling at the edge of your shirt that was already riding up your back, noting the red and fussed up wound by your hip—it was infected, there was no doubt in his mind.

“Does it hurt?” He asks now, “Don’t lie to me.”

Your eyes lock for a long, lingering moment before you nod, shifting away from his touch as it presses featherlight against the skin.

“I got some supplies upstairs,” He tells you absently, eyes examining the festering wound, “you need that cleaned and stitched up properly before you end up septic.”

Not that it sounded like too bad of a prospect anymore, you square yourself away as he retreats without another word, his figured disappearing out of sight as he turned the corner outside of the basement, your eyes following the sound of his footsteps and noticing the soft rustle of dust above—it took a while for you to realize his room was above yours at first.

He’s back swiftly, a trove of supplies in one arm and a wooden chair in the other, hauling them like they weighed nothing, sleeves already rolled up at his elbows. The chair skirts the ground, squealing loudly as Joel brings it near the edge of the bed and motions for you to turn around and face the wall.

Again, not asking.

With shaky hands and fingers you move, slowly until you back meets Joel’s fingers at your shoulder, curled up into a fist and pressing gently into your skin.

“Lift your shirt,” You grab the edges, ready to strip it over your head before Joel grabs your bicep and stops you, “—that’s—that’s fine, alright? Just hold it there.”

Joel slowly cuts away the old thread and removes the old stitching with a careful hand. You bite at your bottom lip until it draws blood. It unsettles Joel with how quiet you are, even now. Not a word or a single sound or expression of pain, just white knuckles gripping the shirt bunched under your chest and your head tucked down as you shake with a silent cry.

“Stop movin’,” He says brutishly, cleaning up the wound with an antiseptic that makes you squirm away slightly, “I’m almost finished.”

He cleans, re-stitches and covers up the wound with minimal effort, like he’s done this a million times before. And you hear the shake of a pill bottle behind you, whipping your head around quickly.

“S’just antibiotics,” Joel explains, “we picked away at a pharmacy a few months back that had a decent supply,” He pours one into his hand before it rolls to his fingers and he’s handing it off to you—as he suspects, you eye it wearily, “look, your choice. I got enough here to clear that up within a week or you can continue to suffer, not my problem.”

Reluctantly, you take the pill from him and dry swallow it down with a small, nearly silent wince.

There was no reason to trust Joel, but you did.

At some point between the walk from your bed to the table, Joel realizes he’d bypassed the entire reason he had come down here–to talk. About it. That instance you were both dancing around, the one he’d fended off the second time with a barking, heavy voice.

His lingering presence is hard to ignore and you grip the edge of the bed, standing on your own two feet with his back turned to you.

He’d helped you again. Maybe you wanted to thank him.

Or you just wanted a distraction from the pain, the creeping loneliness.

He’s so distracted he doesn’t hear your footsteps approach him, a newly found vigor as you pull at his forearm and turn him with a sudden strength Joel wasn’t expecting, sending him tumbling on his heels to the couch. He sees it in your eyes then, the task you’re focused on, already undressed from the waist down, the length of the shirt reaching a few centimeters short of mid–thigh to cover your naked down as you climb onto his lap and Joel allows it.

He doesn’t yell or scream, there is no apprehensiveness there. Not now.

He could sit in your eyes—this was coping with whatever you couldn’t bring yourself to face, unspoken trust that you didn’t want to voice. This was a distraction for him too.

He could fight this off, but Joel never considered himself a great man. Or, really even a decent one. And, as you work at his belt, he finds his hands joining your own, struggling for a moment before he’s yanking the leather from the belt loops and unbuttoning his jeans as you pull at his zipper, lifting slightly off his lap as he pushes his jeans down to his calves—there was a beauty to how easily your bodies worked against each other, your push to his pull.

Wordless, he knew what you wanted. And you knew exactly what to give him.

He was like the bad men, but wholly different.

The wonder and admiration in his eyes told you so, even if they were quickly clouded by desire and lust, his face suddenly stoic as you grab at his cock, tugging it to full hardness within seconds before you’re dragging the tip of his cock down the center of your cunt before sinking down harshly—and the hands stilled at his sides finally act.

He’s careful of the wound on your hip, dragging his fingers over your ass and to your thighs, fingers curling around the back of your bent knees to pull and tug you in, groaning quietly into the thick, thready material of your top as you curl into him.

He couldn’t bear the idea of looking at you, watching you as you moved so eagerly against his cock, soft breaths at his ears that made him wanton for the sounds you couldn’t make, the terrible vocal paralysis like a vice anytime someone looked in your direction, especially him. Your palms press into the wall behind him, dull fingertips clawing at chipped paint as you bounced your hips fiercely, quick and efficient in the process. It was clear you’ve done this before—detached and just a means to an end, a device of pleasure.

And Joel uses it, selfishly. One hand falling to the back of your neck to curl you in further, the other at your ass as he squeezes, guiding your hips down to the sharp, pointed thrust of his own movements and Joel can already feel that familiar cole in his groin—days of staving of his own need for release from the sheer amount of guilt he felt over this, somehow ending up here again.

Using you—and maybe you could admit it yourself, it was just as much a distraction for you as for him, but the sudden warmth in your chest is startling. You could come like this, the drag of his cock hitting so deep inside of you with every thrust that your visions starts to white—a mix of delirium and pure euphoria, the gasp that leaves your mouth is broken and barely audible but Joel can hear it, feeling you tip over that cliff with a hand tangled in his hair, needing an anchor and finding that it was him in that moment.

But, you don’t stop either. Working through the crest of your orgasm with a reflexive squeeze of your cunt as you came apart and pulled him in, his balls tightening in warning as they slapped against your cunt with each drop of your hips and Joel tries to warn you, pushes gently at your hips but you don’t move—won’t. And he comes inside of you with a muffled, tired grunt as he pants into your shirt.

Whatever mutual agreement was made had become void.

“Get off,” He says after a beat, but doesn’t push.

You listen, moving off of him and turning away immediately, arms tucked around your middle as you eyed the fresh clothes and still uneaten slice of dessert, one that Joel had offered to share.

A peace offering, an act of forgiveness. But, that was all shattered and swept away now.

“You stupid, girl?” Joel asks suddenly, turning to him at the harsh words and finding him re-dressed, brow drawn in as he snatches his belt in his right hand, gripping it tight. “That your master plan, here?”

You’re confused and Joel’s eyes drag to your legs, unseen but you can feel his cum dripping down your thighs, pushing out of your cunt as it pulses from the comedown of your own orgasm.

“Gettin’ knocked up and hopin’ that a baby will keep you safe here?”

You were safe nowhere and you knew that.

Joel had no idea, but you couldn’t even begin to explain how wrong he was.

Babies, even the prospect of that idea made your skin crawl.

So, with frustration evident on his face and already anticipating your answer, you shake your head.

“You try that shit again and I’ll—”

You brow raises in anticipation and Joel opens his mouth slightly before he clenches his jaw.

“Knew it was a fuckin’ mistake taking you in.”

And it feels like a gut punch, but he was right.

Joel tosses the pill bottle on the table and you watch as it lands, rolls before hitting the floor and stopping just at your bare toes.

He departs with a deep scowl, door slamming behind him and you wait, count the steps until you hear his footsteps above the basement and you wander over toward the table.

The remnants of the items he’d brought with the intentions of a one-sided conversation, a lecture, really.

It was pointless now.

Opening the container to the uneaten dessert, you sniffed it testingly before swiping a single finger over the icing on top, pressing the sweet, sugar cream against your tongue and letting your eyes drift closed at the flavor, giving yourself a few seconds to enjoy and savor before you’re ripping into the thing with your bare hands, a fuck you the peace offering Joel was trying for.

There was no peace to be had. You would never find peace here, either.

A new emotion floods your body—not anger or rage, but jealousy, greed. You wanted him, and deep within, you knew he wanted you too. Even if just in a primal way, a means to distract.

And in your sudden, newfound boldness and curiosity you linger toward the kitchen in a fresh change of clothes for that night, snatching up the notepad Joel had left out from your previous conversation before scribbling the rest of that out and ripping off a jagged piece of paper.

It was a thank you.

Flipping it over, you continue the message.

There is no plan. I trust you.

You fold the paper up and wander down the hall, counting the steps until you land at a closed door, one that you can only assume and hope is Joel’s and slip the paper under the gap at the bottom of the door.

There was a chance, the anticipation that Joel could convince Tommy to strand you out into the forest again, forced back into harsh survival, but something tells you Joel doesn’t have it in him, not anymore.

Joel catches the sight of your departing shadow as he retreats toward his bed, the paper flying across the floor with the sudden draft and landing right at his feet, he picks it up and readies to trash it without a thought before he catches sight of that simple phrase.

thank you – no plan —

Joel pauses, reading over the final set of words with a dangerous tug in his heart.

I trust you.

That tug was guilt and the creeping sensation of doom.

Trust. You.

He’s really fucked up now.

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #the last of us #tlou #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fic #my writing

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ddejavvu · 8 months ago

Note

so i absolutely love the best friend james potter fic where he warms his hands between the reader’s thighs and the idea of him having really bad circulation just makes sense to me, so can we get a technically kinda part two but instead of between the readers thighs it’s that portion of underboob that just heats up so much for no reason whatsoever? 🙇🙇🙇

Sirius's canine form requires him to get at least twelve hours of outdoor time per week, but during the winter months it becomes a chore delegated to the least lucky of the group: take Padfoot for a walk.

"Please, Jamie?" You'd leveled James with puppy eyes that rivalled Sirius himself, and now two sets of footprints lay in the snow beside pawprints that wind around them in happy trails.

"It's bloody cold out here." James comments, like your own nose isn't burning from the temperature, "Sirius, can't you piss on trees faster?"

Padfoot, who greatly resents the tree-pissing stereotype, takes a snapping lunge at James's ankles that sends him careening into you from your left.

"James!" You shriek as your feet and his knock clumsily together, all four united in trying to stabilize you. His arm wraps around your waist and he finds his footing first, which means that you're supported by his grip as you find your own. You find yourself inches away from his face, his nose stained red akin to his cheeks as you both laugh at how you've ended up pinned to a tree in the forest. Sirius barks at you, sounding suspiciously giddy, and James drags his hands off of your back, trailing them over your stomach as he goes.

"Gonna put a muzzle on you for that one, mutt." James threatens Sirius, who dashes off to find a stick or lick a toad or whatever else his dog brain fancies at the moment. You're left trailing beside James once again, wishing that you had your own stick to drag through the snow.

"You were really warm," James reminisces, his hands surely going numb, "Like- your stomach?"

"It's my boobs," You snicker, "No matter how cold a girl gets, the space beneath her tits will always be warm."

"Really?" James peers curiously at you, "That's cool. It's like a life hack."

"Right. It's-" You stick a hand guilelessly beneath your shirt, nestling it beneath the curve of your bra, "It's not, like, sweaty or anything. Just warm."

"Fascinating." James pushes his glasses up his nose with a single outstretched finger, "Wish I had some of those."

"You can borrow mine," You concede, taking James's hand in your own and sliding it up your stomach until his hand is leeching off of the same warmth you'd felt only seconds prior, "Feel it?"

His jaw drops, one of his unruly curls bouncing stubbornly in front of his face.

"Darling, you weren't kidding! It's like an oven in here." He hums, his other hand greedily reaching for the excess space beneath your chest, "Oh my god, if I had this I'd never stop touching it."

When Padfoot returns it's to James pressing you against another tree, hands pressed firmly to the space beneath your tits. He charges for James determinedly, latching his teeth around the man's elbow and pulling with all of his might to separate his friend from you.

"Pads- ouch! She's- relax, Fido, she's let me. I'm warming my hands, thank you very much."

James manages to pry Padfoot's maw off of him, hissing at the skin surely bruised beneath his thick wool coat.

"It's alright, Sirius." You rub sweetly between the dog's ears, "His hands were cold, that's all. Don't want to bring him back to the castle with less than ten fingers."

Sirius's resulting growl towards James sounds suspiciously like he's going to lose fingers anyways, whether it be from frostbite or a dog's bite.

#james potter x reader #james potter imagine #james potter scenario #james potter oneshot #james potter one shot #james potter one-shot #james potter headcanon #james potter headcanons #james potter hc #james potter hcs #james potter fanfiction #james potter fanfic #james potter fic #james potter blurb #james potter drabble #james potter dialogue #james potter fluff #james potter x reader fanfiction

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la-patrona-magdalena · 8 days ago

Text

Synopsis:

You always wanted your family to look at you, even just once. At least with a bit of the affection they gave to the portraits of your mother. Too bad that when they finally did, you were looking at the pages of a comic that showed the cruel future.

Inspired by the manhwa: no place for the Fake Princess

Warnings: English is not my first language, so I used a translator. Yandere content, neglect, abandonment, angst (?), allusions to death, original character (not the reader), allusions to torture. I try to keep the gender neutral,but in part there are mostly feminine pronouns. I think this would also count as slow burn. If any warnings are missing here, please let me know.

Disclaimer: This fanfic is for personal reading only. The use of this text for AI model training, data mining, commercial purposes, or any automated reproduction is strictly prohibited without the explicit consent of the author. Translation or reposting to other platforms is also strictly prohibited without the author's permission

Unlike the other chapters, this one has not been reviewed or edited (neither in Spanish nor in its English version), although it probably does not have spelling errors, it may have errors in the narration or structure. It is also possible that in the next few weeks I will edit it, not to change facts but to change some of the way in which some things are written.

Thank you.

You can read the fanfic in its original language (Spanish) on my AO3

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Masterlist

Chapter Five - Reflected Gaze

Could it be said that Tim’s apartment was less luxurious? Yes, it was smaller than the manor, but apart from the cartoons you sometimes watched, you didn’t know what a home looked like outside Wayne Manor.

Tim gave you a brief tour of the apartment to show you around, explaining which door led to the bathroom, his room and Bernard’s, the study, and your room.

He told you it was the guest room—again, it was the first time you’d been anywhere other than the manor, so you had no frame of reference for whether a guest room should look like someone had always lived there.

He placed your few suitcases in the room and helped you arrange everything on the shelves and in the closet. Except for the wool bag hiding the comics, you’d told him it contained your underwear and you were embarrassed, which wasn’t a lie; not all your underwear was in there, but enough to make the story believable.

Not much time had passed, only half a week since you left. Tim said he’d tutor you and ensure your health improved. You’d suggested your teachers come to his apartment so he wouldn’t have to go out of his way… and you could keep the distance you needed… But he refused, and even seemed… offended.

Truth be told, after all the chaos of last week, you found these days almost boring. You hadn’t done much with the comics while you adjusted to the new surroundings; you repaired the plush toy you’d shredded with your nails last time, watched a few cartoons, and read the occasional book with Tim glancing at you furtively… Was it a bother? Yes. But after the suffocating week before, you wouldn’t complain again. Handling one vigilante is easier than three.

You were in the bathroom, following your usual bedtime routine: styling your hair, brushing your teeth, grabbing the pill bottle, and tossing one down the toilet to make it look like you were still taking them...the usual

You watched the pill sink slowly in the water, remembering how, before Alfred left, after leaving them both in the apartment he’d warned you not to forget to take one of those before bed, like always.

Never mind, you’ve already lost three days, you need to get back to your plan of gathering information from the comics, preferably by taking notes again in your wool notebook…

Finding a way to do it wasn’t easy. If you did it out in the open, Tim would discover you; if you stayed too long in the bathroom he’d worry. The only time he left was at night to do his vigilante work. You still didn’t know if he’d told the rest of the family that you knew about him; you also didn’t know if he’d deduced that you knew about the others. You didn’t know, and you didn’t care.

You could stay awake until he left for work, if it weren't for the fact that he wouldn't leave until you actually fell asleep, really fell asleep. He knew when you were pretending. It was useless trying to fool him.

Over these days you thought a lot about what you could do, so you concluded that the best approach would be to read a few pages in the bathroom and jot down notes in stages. The time it takes to read a handful of pages is relatively short; you’d be out before Tim realized. And today you’d put that plan into action.

Starting with the first of the three comics—where Serelith made her first appearance.

You pulled out the wool-class notebook you’d hidden under your pajama top, and began writing on its back in sequence, timing how long it had been since you’d started your nighttime routine.

First, you and Serelith were born in Gotham, but neither of your maternal families is from here. She was found in England on a trip by Batman and Nightwing. And apparently your real father was from there, too.

Dick noticed the obvious resemblance between her and Avery, and had her take DNA tests, uncovering the truth… Later they put you both through other examinations…

You had the initial key events down—very good—too bad in your condition you couldn’t go to England soon to bring Serelith back and end this.

It was easy to extract the early turning points. Maybe you’d keep at it for a while, recapping important moments… after that… what would you do?

Sure, you said you wanted a scholarship and to change your last name, but you had no idea how to go about any of that. Your life boiled down to studying, asking for material favors but never emotional ones, watching a movie when they let you, and you don’t recall ever having any class about what the future holds.

Well… maybe you could leverage your stay at Tim’s apartment? He said he could tutor you, so it wouldn’t hurt to ask discreetly.

Also, by spending time with him, could you perhaps learn something about investigation? It would be very useful to get the most out of the comics.

Even if you want to distance yourself from everyone to stop taking someone else’s place, for now it’s best to make use of your options.

You hid the comics again under your underwear inside the wool bag, placing them back in their spot. Once more you tucked your wool-class notebook under your pajama top and stepped out of the bathroom, hugging yourself. Tim was probably starting to change into his suit in his room, so you dashed to your bedroom, crawled into bed, and only after you’d ensured the blanket covered your entire body did you pull out your notebook and slip it under your pillow as discreetly as you could, hoping the sheet wouldn’t reveal your hand.

You wouldn’t go to such lengths to hide it if, on the very day you arrived, you hadn’t had a nightmare that sent you tumbling out of bed.

It wasn’t a hard fall—it only left a bruise on your arm—but somehow, Tim found out what happened. You don’t know how—you never told him, and every night he goes out on patrol—so how did he learn?

That’s precisely why you now have to be so careful with the comics and your notebook. Better safe than sorry.

It would be stressful, of course, but nothing would compare to what you went through with the others.

You waited, lying down, now with everything secured, for Tim to walk through the door as he had started doing since you moved in recently

As expected, he didn’t take long to open your bedroom door, wearing his Red Robin suit without the mask… It was strange how this pre‑sleep routine mirrored the night everything changed.

As on the previous nights, he left a glass of water and a communicator device on your bedside table, straightened your sheet for you, and finally looked at you for a few seconds before sitting down beside you, giving you space.

— I’m heading out. You know the drill: if anything happens—even a nightmare—don’t hesitate to use the communicator.

You listened attentively, even if it was the same thing since you arrived here, you nodded, even if you clearly refused to call him, it's not your right to call him... And, as always, he hesitated, wondering if he should stay a bit longer, say something more.

But this time, unlike the other nights, you spoke first.

— Tim, could you start giving me lessons tomorrow? At least a few… — You watched him, fatigue settling in.

Even if you didn’t notice, Tim was excited on the inside—you talked to him, said his name, asked him to teach you. Not one of your teachers, two of which (in his opinion) weren’t great options anyway. You asked him.

— Of course. Yeah, your condition’s a bit better, we can start tomorrow, at whatever time you want, with whatever subject you prefer, okay? — obviously he’d say yes. He’d spent the whole week thinking about different study plans for you. You’d do way better with him than with any teacher.

— Yes, that’s fine. — One less worry. If you could choose, you’d start with something useful for the future. Maybe you’d ask about scholarships or something.

Tim wanted to say more—he had to seize the moment—but he couldn’t. The communicator on his suit buzzed first, and reluctantly he rose from the bed.

— I’m off, sleep well. — He said goodbye, leaving the room, though you knew better than anyone that he wouldn’t go until you were asleep. And that’s exactly what you did.

Dick remembers clearly the day you were born—how could he not? It was the same week he was on a mission in Tamaran, the very week after Jason’s death. And the exact day Avery died.

Of course, he didn’t learn any of this until days later, he wasn’t there for anyone.

The revelation hit him like a bucket of cold water: his younger brother, whose Robin suit he’d given and spent nights training, and the woman who had supported him most when he distanced himself from Bruce—the woman who, since arriving in their lives, had given her all even though there was a wall between her and them.

He sat on the rooftop, gazing out over Gotham’s night skyline. In a few days he’d return to his own city. Shame he wouldn’t be here for you again—because by his own words, you didn’t want him around.

Even from a distance, he could sense Red Robin touching down on the same rooftop; he turned to look, smiling, despite the envy burning within him because the newcomer had been there with you, despite never having held you as a baby like he had, and despite having spent less time in the family—these past weeks Tim had felt more like family to you than him for you.

Tim settled beside him, as if nothing had happened—as if he didn’t have the privilege of being chosen by you.

— It’s alright, her mental health is improving. — Tim spoke before Dick could ask; he already knew what was coming, since the same question came up every night. He understood that someone in Dick’s position would worry about everyone, but hearing the same thing each evening was growing tiresome—it spoiled the comforting feeling of tucking her in. — If you still have doubts, go see her before you head out.

— Does she even want to see me? — Was it worth asking? He already knew the answer. The only person you said you wanted to call was Alfred—maybe a halfhearted greeting to Damian, but him? Nothing.

Tim didn’t answer; he only looked at Dick, unwilling to lie about what Dick truly wanted to hear.

He remembers hearing your laughter...laughing innocently when he finally held you in his arms, so small, so weak. You were born at the worst possible time, not only because of your mother, but also because of the pain Jason left behind.

It hurt even more when Bruce confirmed his worst fear. The words printed on those pages only worsened the tension.

— I honestly thought it was something else… her fainting— he murmured, looking down, his voice tired and defeated.

—And if that were the case? What would you have done? Were you thinking of blaming me? — Since these nightly meetings began, he himself had noticed how Dick sometimes seemed annoyed with him. It wasn't constant, just enough to be noticed, and they were overshadowed by the feeling of guilt.

— I didn’t mean to… you don’t know why—

— Exactly, I don’t know. But it seems every time someone tries to give affection to a the kid, someone steps in.

— It’s for her own good, Tim— Dick’s frustration rose as he looked up at the younger man. — It’s out of our hands.

— If it’s for her good, why don’t you tell me what’s going on? — Tim tried to calm himself; he didn’t want to fight with the one person in the family he seemed to have a stable relationship with—aside from Cass.

—…If I don't tell you, you'll try to find out on your own, won't you? — Dick held back a laugh, pushing down his frustration. He knew that telling the truth was the right thing to do—so many misunderstandings would be cleared up—but it hurt so much to talk about this.

— “Try” is an understatement; I’m going to find out. — Tim replied firmly, crossing his arms. — Your choice how I learn.

Dick just sighed, even though it hurt, telling the truth was the best option.

— Alright. Listen.

Surprisingly, this morning, Tim didn’t pull your hair while brushing it, that’s an improvement.

He hadn't told you anything yesterday about going out for a walk early in the morning—he just brought it up while you were having breakfast. You didn’t really mind going out. Even if the only few times you gone out before were exclusively for shopping. If you ever wanted some fresh air, you'd go to the mansion's garden—sometimes you'd end up at the farm with Damian’s pets. Getting some fresh air away from the new apartment would be nice.

So there you were, walking toward a small children’s park near the apartment. You didn’t feel the same anxiety you did when you left the mansion, but it was still unfamiliar. You’d have to get used to it if you wanted to go out on your own in a few years.

When you arrived, you looked curiously at the different playground equipment you’d only ever seen on TV. You had never seen children who weren’t Damian. You wanted to get closer, but… what would you even do? Your experience with socializing is terribly limited.

— Come on — Tim guided you toward the swings, showing you how to sit. You held tightly to the chains hanging from it. He was about to push you, but stopped, staring at your wrists. — What’s that?

You followed his gaze, realizing what he meant.

— Ah, that was a gift from Damian. — You clarified without much enthusiasm. When you opened the box and saw a bracelet, you hadn’t wanted to wear it. But after one of the calls with Alfred, where he explained to you that the boy with green eyeshad made the bracelet by hand, with some kind of decorative mix between Arabic and Chinese styles, you decided to wear it.

You might not consider Damian a brother, but you knew weaving wasn’t an easy task — even less for someone just learning, and especially when it had custom decorative motifs. So you ended up wearing the bracelet mostly out of respect.

You could tell Tim looked irritated — the same annoyed face he made when you mentioned wanting to have classes with your regular teachers instead of him. But just as he was about to say something, his phone rang. Tim sighed, now even more frustrated by the interruption.

— Stay here, I’ll be right back.

You stayed put, obediently, swinging your feet in the air. You weren’t planning to move — your fear of inexperience was bigger than your curiosity to keep exploring. Still, you turned your eyes toward the other kids running around...

Some of them were with their parents. You thought you heard a few calling out to their siblings.

Will you ever have something like that?

— Ouch! — your knees hit the ground of the park, scraping a little. You looked back to see who had pushed you off the swing, finding two kids.

— Move! If you’re not gonna use the swings, then leave. — the smaller one yelled at you, annoyed. You got up from the ground calmly — at least this kid was yelling at you over the swings and not because of Avery’s death.

— You could’ve just told me, there was no need to push me — you said to them, looking at both with a bit of determination. You didn’t know how to socialize with other kids, but you did know how to deal with people who bothered you.

— No! This is more fun — one of the boys went around the swing and came closer to you, clearly not with good intentions. You were ready to defend yourself, just like Damian had once taught you. But the boy stopped, staring past you, terrified.

You turned to look, and found a blonde woman with a serious gaze, aimed straight at the boy. It gave you chills...

— …Leave — it was a dry, direct word, but intimidating enough that both boys ran off. Even the other kids still on the swings, who had nothing to do with it, also left. You were the only one who stayed, frozen, unsure of what to do. Until you gathered the courage and looked up.

— Thank you very much… miss… — you might not be a Wayne by blood, but being polite was already something ingrained in you.

— Maria — she finished the sentence, her tone softening a little for you. She looked around, noticing there was no one else. — Are you alone?

— No, ma’am — polite, yes, but you weren’t stupid either. You weren’t going to tell her you were alone. You looked back and saw Tim still on that call, but his eyes were fixed on the two of you. He looked away now and then, clearly still upset. — I came with… him.

— Is he your brother? — Maria asked. You fell silent. Saying yes would be safer, but ever since, thanks to Bruce, you finally got used to not calling them family, the words got stuck in your throat.

She noticed your silence, but didn’t say anything else — she just crouched down to your level, pulled a handkerchief from her pants pocket, and cleaned your scraped knees. You watched the fabric get stained a little with your blood...

Blood...

Your chest tightened — the image from the comic came back to your mind.

— Miss Maria… — you stammered, feeling the air slowly leaving you. She looked at you, noticing your frightened state. — Do you have something I can squeeze?

She looked at you, confused. She noticed how you seemed on the verge of a panic attack. She wasn’t an expert, but she had seen them a few times before. She did as you asked and tried to find something while the dirty cloth slipped from her hands. She tried to think of anything, but she didn’t have much on her.

— Umm… I don’t have anything… — she looked around, searching for something. Your breathing sped up more and more. You tried to calm it down — inhale, exhale, repeat. You looked at Maria — you wanted her to calm you down before Tim noticed.

You also tried to look for something. You watched Maria’s hands move, and on reflex, you grabbed them and squeezed.

Maria was surprised. She looked down at how your small hands were holding hers, gripping tightly while you practiced a breathing exercise she didn’t recognize. Slowly, her eyes moved up to yours.

Oh, your eyes…

You calmed down — you managed to calm down. The bloody cloth was out of your line of sight, and now that you were fully back in your senses, you felt embarrassed. You were holding the hands of a complete stranger.

— I’m really sorry. — You let go of her hands as quickly as you could, apologizing, flustered. Maria, however, was still looking into your eyes. — Yeah, of course… I…

— What's going on? — Tim suddenly appeared at her side, his phone still on call, ringing only

— Ah, Tim, this is Maria, she was helping me with– You tried to explain quickly. You didn’t want more trouble, but she stood up, picking up the dirty cloth from the ground before you could say more.

—Take care, kid — she said goodbye, without looking at Tim, leaving the two of you alone.

You went back to the swing. Tim didn’t even say goodbye to whoever he’d been on the phone with — he just hung up and came over to you, crouching to your level and checking if you were okay.

Was it just your imagination, or did Maria put the cloth into her pants pocket?

I almost didn't make it to upload this, folks, but surprisingly — for being the chapter I wrote in the biggest rush (to the point it’s not even well edited in its original language) — it’s the one I’m most satisfied with so far. Since chapter one, no other chapter had felt this satisfying to me.

For those who didn’t see the post: I had to delay this chapter’s release to today because the past few weeks have been rough. I'm praying the next ones will be easier. The idea of going on hiatus is still on my mind, but I feel like some things are clearer now, and that’s making me question whether I should go through with it.

I don’t know if it was noticeable, but from now on, the chapters will be a bit longer. Normally, my writing limit was five pages to keep the pacing between chapters steady, but starting from the last one, the rhythm has shifted to seven or eight pages — and it’ll probably stay that way.

Anyway, as always, your comments and hearts are truly appreciated! :D

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docrobinavitch · 22 days ago

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force of nature, pull of gravity | part three

dr. robby x f!attending!reader force of nature masterlist masterlist content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, the entirety of this fic navigates grief in depth, death of mentor (adamson), death of child/family member, suicidal ideation, swearing, canon medical events, alcohol, smoking (marijuana), mentions of drug use, angst words: 10.7K synopsis: robby and reader put their issues aside as they navigate pittfest, but they're never very far. as things begin to taper off, they discuss the future a/n: hooo baby welcome to the third and final part of force of nature. this one almost killed me. i hope you love it. please note that i fucked with the canon timeline heavily. as promised, we leave off on a happy and hopeful note i think! anyway, please come yap to me about all your thoughts about them i would love nothing more. i'll still be thinking about them for quite a while. <3 syd

It didn’t feel like any of it was real. It had felt like that for about six months now, since March, when everything shut down. Except, of course, the hospital.

You don’t remember everything, it only came in snapshots. Like a damaged film reel, it played in and out, the blanks filled with static. Your therapist explained that not being able to remember was your brain’s way of protecting you. Without your permission, your mind had filed things all the way in the back, in a safe you didn’t have the key to. You alternated between being grateful and being angry. After all, those were your last few months with Adamson. You both wanted to remember everything and desperately wanted to forget.

What you remember most about that period of time, the worst of it, before the rollout of the vaccines, were the feelings. The anger, the fear, the grief. But mostly, the loneliness of it.

You were with people all day long, but not really. Masks and goggles and hazmat suits and gloves keeping enough distance between everyone. A touch on the shoulder that didn’t reach skin. A squeeze of the wrist but no warmth from a pulse. You couldn’t tell when someone was smiling or not. It was as if someone had wrapped the world in wool, muffling everyone from everything that made you human.

The first time you got sick and the test lit up positive for Covid, it felt like a moral failure of some kind.

You spent the next couple of weeks secluded to your apartment, at the mercy of your own hypervigilance, constantly checking your pulse ox and heart rate and fever. Anything that might indicate you were worsening.

But you were fine, in the end. It stayed relatively tame for you. Which made everything feel so much worse when you watched Dr. Adamson deteriorate just a month later.

“He’s gonna be fine.” You and Robby would repeat back and forth to one another almost every hour after he had been admitted for having difficulty breathing.

But then the treatment wasn’t working, he was getting worse. Robby had to put him on ECMO. And you and Robby stopped talking. Stopped seeking each other out for reassurance because it was obvious what was happening and neither of you could say it aloud.

You regretted that most, now. That you had let him stop talking to you.

Today seemed determined to drag all of those feelings back to the surface for you. Especially the feeling like none of it was quite happening. You were worried you might fully untether from your body in the face of this fucking mass casualty. You had no idea what you were going to do now, now that you had kissed Robby in the ambulance bay. Now that he had finally admitted that he was in love with you. Your head was spinning.

But there wasn’t time for you to spin out, because now they were preparing for an MCI. And Jake was there and not answering his phone. And Robby had that look on his face, like he did when the EMTs rolled Adamson into the Pitt four years ago. Like he was absolutely terrified, but his brain was already skipping past that feeling to find a solution.

It was this look that terrified you because it usually meant he thought he was the only one capable of finding that solution and he would block everyone else out to get that result.

“Hey,” You caught his wrist in your hand as you walked back into the ER, instinctually ran your thumb over the tattoo there. You could feel his pulse racing under your touch. He paused, looking down at your hand and then back up, meeting your eyes, “I’m here.”

You said, just as a reminder. Despite whatever trainwreck had just occurred between the two of you, you needed him to know he could lean on you right now in whatever capacity he needed to get through this.

He nodded, “Yeah,” He grabbed your hand and squeezed it lightly, “Yeah, me too.”

When Abbot walked into the ER, immediately, you were relieved at the sight of him. The tightness in your chest eased when he squeezed your shoulder. The both of you listened as Robby gave his speech to the staff about what was happening and what was about to happen, jumping in if either of you thought it was necessary.

“You and Robby doing okay?” Jack asked quietly.

You turned to look at him and shook your head, “I don’t know.” You swallowed, “And I guess since I’ve told him, I should tell you as well, that I… accepted a job offer at Presby.”

He stared at you for a moment, “What a fucking day.” He shook his head, arms crossed over his chest, “Alright. We’ll talk about that later.”

You stuffed some eleven blades in your pockets after Robby handed you the Primary Triage MD vest. “You know the drill?” He asked, handing you the belt with all the different color wrist bands.

You nodded, taking the belt from him and strapping it around your waist, “Assess based on mental status and pulse strength. Mental status, AVPU, alert, response to verbal, response to pain, unresponsive. Pulse next, radial, femoral, carotid.”

You weren’t new at this, but repeating the textbook instructions back to him soothed your nerves. The adrenaline rush whenever you knew a bunch of traumas were headed your way.

“Excellent,” He said and managed the smallest of smiles. And for a second, it felt like he was a senior resident again and you an intern. Before everything got complicated. “I’ll help you get started.”

You followed him out to the ambulance bay and almost immediately, a car pulled up with gunshot victims. You and Robby don’t need to speak to each other as you spend those ten seconds per patient, this is where the two of you had always worked best, side by side on patients. It’s the one place you trusted each other implicitly, where there was no gray area between you.

After getting three patients triaged and moved inside in about thirty seconds, the two of you shared a smirk and a high five, Robby wrapping his hand around yours and keeping it there.

“Bet they can’t triage that fast at Presby.” He said softly, hitting you fully with his big, woeful brown eyes.

You scowled at him and pulled your hand from his, “Don’t look at me with that face.”

“What face?”

You gesticulated towards his face with your hands, frustration clear in every movement, “Your fucking kicked puppy face.”

He titled his head, frowning, but there was a hint of amusement in his expression, “This is just my face.”

“Well it’s fucked up.” You said, looking away and towards the road, waiting for more incoming.

“My face is fucked up?” Yeah, that was definitely amusement in his voice.

You sighed, “You should go inside, they need you in there. Send out Shen to help me.” You felt his stare on you, hot and heavy, “I’ll come get you if I see Jake.”

He watched you for a moment longer before you heard him leave, the ambulance bay doors sliding open and closed.

His absence had your pulse racing again until all you could hear was the pounding of blood in your ears and the slow crescendo of the approaching sirens.

***

Robby was out to dinner with Janey when his phone rang. As he fished it out of his pocket, Janey sighed, and he knew whether or not he answered it he had already lost.

He and Janey had been together a year and a half when your niece drowned. At first, Janey was gracious whenever Robby had to cancel plans or came home later than usual because you were having a hard time. But as the weeks and months passed she became less and less forgiving.

Robby couldn’t really blame her. He knew he was being an awful partner, putting the needs of his friend above his girlfriend. He tried asking Jack to keep an eye on you instead occasionally, but Jack himself admitted he couldn’t quite get through to you the way Robby could. And lately your behavior had grown more erratic and unpredictable to the point where Adamson had forced you into another leave of absence.

The conversation between the two of you had been muffled through the family room door, but Robby had still gotten the gist of it. You were snapping at patients, often putting yourself in unsafe situations on purpose. It was obvious you wanted to physically endanger yourself and Adamson wouldn’t tolerate it in his ER. He told you to take your leave and get help while you were out. You wouldn’t be welcomed back until you got a handle on both your behavior and your grief. You had stormed out of the ER, tears of frustration rushing down your cheeks.

That was three days ago and Robby hadn’t heard from you since. At first, he thought it might have been best to give you space, but then he really started to worry. And now his phone was ringing and it was an unknown number.

He gave Janey an apologetic look, but she waved him off, and he was already out of his seat to pick up the call.

“Is this Dr. Robby?”

He rubbed at his beard anxiously with his free hand, “Speaking.”

“Hi, darling, sorry to bother you. It’s Mrs. Carpenter from 57B.”

Your neighbor. He had forgotten he had given her his number the last time he was at your apartment, in case of emergency.

“I haven’t seen her in a few days, but the last few hours she’s been blasting that Fleetwood Mac album and she won’t answer her door. I can handle the noise,” She said quickly as he tried to interrupt to apologize, “but I’m starting to get worried about her and I know you have a key.”

Already, he was nodding, “Yeah, of course. I’ll be right over.”

Hanging up, he sighed and ran a hand over his face. He really, really, shouldn’t be running at the drop of a hat to your apartment. Not when he knew it was going to upset Janey.

But even as he thought it, that he should stay with Janey, he could see the faraway look in your eyes you’d had for months now. The nails chewed to the quick, cracked and bleeding. The bruises beneath your eyes because of the constant nightmares.

He heard the arguments he and Janey had had about you over the last few months. Her saying you weren’t his responsibility. But it didn’t feel like that. Hadn’t felt that way since your first day of residency when he cleaned up the cut on your forehead. When he said he would make sure you got through the day and you had looked at him like no one had ever offered you help before.

He did feel like you were his responsibility, and if you slipped through the cracks now, he wasn’t sure he could live with that.

Robby hadn’t even opened his mouth to explain to Janey that he had to go when she was already shaking her head in frustration, “She’s not a child, Michael, she’s a grown woman–”

“She’s going through some shit right now–”

“Everybody’s going through some shit!” She scoffed, “Look, I… I understand that she’s your friend, that you’ve been friends a long time. And I love that you’re such a supportive, giving friend. But I–I’m sorry, I can’t keep being your second choice.”

Robby looked at her sadly, “You’re not my second choice.” He insisted.

She tilted her head slightly, “If you walk out to go to her right now, I’m sorry, but we’re done.”

He sighed and dropped his head, rubbing a hand down to the back of his neck, “Can’t we talk about this later?”

“No,” She said softly, “I’m tired of talking in circles with you. It’s time for you to make a choice. And I think we both know what choice you’re going to make.”

He looked back up at her. He wanted to be angry with her for giving him an ultimatum, but the truth was, they both knew it wasn’t a choice to him. He didn’t know how to choose anyone who wasn’t you. He could no longer imagine his life without you in it.

He sighed, “Janey, I don’t… I don’t want to end it like this.”

“Then don’t.”

He looked down at his phone and then back up to Janey, “I have to go check on her.” He said softly.

Janey nodded, like she had been expecting that answer, “So go, Michael.”

“I’m sorry.” He said, and he meant it. He didn’t want to hurt Janey, but you needed him.

So he showed up at your apartment that night, banging on your door and calling your name for minutes. No answer, and you were blasting Rumours very loudly. Eventually, he called out that he was letting himself in and used the copy of the key you had given him to open the door.

The apartment was a mess. Clothes strewn haphazardly, empty takeout containers stacked on top of one another on most surfaces. A coat was draped over the record player which Robby moved so he could turn off the music.

You were nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t like you to leave your apartment in such disarray. You liked order, control. He had never known you to leave a dirty dish lying around. It was unheard of for a coat to not be on a hook or clothes left outside their proper spot in your drawer or closet. It scared the shit out of him to see it like this, it felt like a very blatant projection of your current mental health.

With the music off, he called out your name again, but still no response. However, he heard the shower running and followed the sound to the bathroom.

He knocked a few times, but there was no response and he started to panic. When he jiggled the doorknob, he expected it to be locked, but it was open and he pushed it ajar. He was prepared to find the worst, but you were fine, physically anyway.

The shower was running, but you weren’t in it. Fully clothed, you stood on the toilet, head out the open window, a lit joint between your fingers.

You turned to look at him and your eyes were bloodshot, from the drugs, or from crying, he couldn’t tell. For a second, he felt relief, but then he was annoyed. He had left Janey, ended things with her for good, for fear something was really wrong and you were just fucking getting high.

“Is there a reason you won’t answer your fucking phone?” He asked gruffly.

You took a drag from your joint, and watched him as you held the smoke in your lungs, before slowly exhaling in his face, “It’s in the other room, why the fuck are you here?”

He scoffed, “Because I’m an idiot, I guess.” He shook his head, “Mrs. Carpenter said she had been knocking on your door for a while and you weren’t answering, I thought–I don’t know, no one had heard from you in a while.”

“Well,” You jumped off the toilet, “I’m alive, as you can see, so you can go.”

He plucked the joint out of your hand, “Where did you get this?”

You made to grab the joint back from him, but he held it out of your reach and you scowled, “I bought it off Marcus, the guy who lives at the end of the hall. Now would you stop killing my peace?”

“Is that all you bought from him?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. You were pretty high and had also drunk a whole bottle of wine earlier, so you weren’t positive, but you thought you knew what he was implying, “Are you… are you asking… if I bought pills?”

He stared at you silently, jaw clenched.

“Is this a fucking joke? You’re joking?” Still, he said nothing. You scoffed, “Robby, I’d never do that. You know that.”

He shook his head, “I don’t know that. You’re scaring the hell out of me,” His voice broke, “I thought when I walked in here I was gonna find your body.”

You sighed, “You’re being very dramatic.”

“Am I?” He bent his head to meet your eyes, “Can you tell me honestly that you haven’t thought about it?”

You couldn’t. Since your niece had passed you had been in a sort of fugue state and when you weren’t fully dissociated, you wondered what the point was of anything. What was the point of being an emergency medicine doctor if you couldn’t save your goddaughter? And if you weren’t an emergency medicine doctor, who were you? You had allowed your career to dictate your entire adult life so far and all you knew was being good at medicine.

But maybe you weren’t very good at medicine at all, because when it mattered most you failed.

So, yeah. You had thought about buying the drugs. You had thought about going up to the roof and not coming back down. You had thought about getting in your car and heading for the ocean. But you were still here.

You broke Robby’s stare and stepped around him, turning off the shower and walking to your kitchen. You grabbed two glasses from the top shelf and a bottle of bourbon, poured each of you a generous glass and pushed one towards Robby.

He shook his head, “I don’t want any. I want you to talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say?” You asked softly, too exhausted to fight.

Every line of his face was etched with desperation as he looked at you and shook his head slightly, “That you’ll stop punishing yourself like this,” He gestured to the alcohol, to the disaster that was your apartment, “You can’t keep going like this, it’s unsustainable. You need help. You need to figure out how to forgive yourself.”

You swirled the amber liquid around your glass, “I don’t know that I can.”

He took the glass from your hand and pushed it away, taking your hands in his instead, “Look at me,” He said softly and your bloodshot eyes trailed up to his. His thumb made gentle circles on the back of your hand, “You can,” He said slowly, “But you have to want it. For you.”

You weren’t sure you did want it. You didn’t think you deserved to want it. But even through your drug and alcohol induced haze, you could see Robby was scared and desperate. Seemingly, at the prospect of losing you. Maybe you’d want it for yourself one day. Right now, you just wanted him to stop looking at you like that.

“Okay.” You said softly.

“You mean that?”

You nodded, “I mean it.”

He pulled you into a hug, sighing in relief as he rested his head on top of yours, “Tomorrow, we’re going to find you a psychologist. Tonight, I’m going to clean up your apartment and make you something to eat, okay? Why don’t you go lie down?”

You pulled back to look up at him, “Really? You’re going to make me something to eat?”

He smirked, “What, you think I can’t do it?”

You shrugged, “I am intrigued at the prospect, but my expectations are very low.”

He laughed and released you from his arms, “Well, we’ll see. We can always order takeout if I fuck it up.”

He burned a sauce so badly you had to throw the whole pan away, apologizing to your neighbors for the smoke alarm. Robby’s face was beet red with embarrassment as he apologized to you over and over, but you laughed so hard you snorted. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed like that.

He stayed the night and you fell asleep on the couch. When you woke up, the Sun was just beginning to peek through the blinds. A blanket was draped over you and Robby was asleep on the other end of the couch. It was the first time you hadn’t been woken abruptly by a nightmare in as long as you could remember.

***

When you heard Jake’s voice coming from the back of a pickup truck, you sprinted immediately to him, “Jake?”

There was so, so much blood all over him you thought your knees might give out at the sight of it.

“It’s not mine,” He said, tears streaming down his face, “It’s Leah’s. She was shot in the chest. I–I’ve been putting pressure on it, but there’s so much–”

“No, that’s– That’s good, bud, you did good.” You leaned over his girlfriend who laid unconscious in his lap and searched for a pulse, found the barest flutter of one at her carotid.

It didn’t look good. In fact, you thought her heart would probably stop within the next minute or so. There was too much blood, the bullet looked like it maybe had gone right through her heart.

“She’s gonna be okay, right?” Jake asked, voice breaking.

You took a deep breath, “Are you hurt?”

“I–I don’t know, maybe my leg?”

Quickly, you put a red wristband on Leah and a yellow on Jake and started taking off your bright orange vest that indicated you were Primary Triage MD, “John!” You shouted, and almost immediately, Dr. Shen was beside you, “You take over as Primary Triage, I’m bringing these two in. You good?”

“Yeah,” He said, strapping the belt of wristbands around his waist, “Yeah, I got it.”

Nurses helped you get Leah on a gurney, you shouted at someone to put Jake in a wheelchair and bring him in, ignored his frantic shouts to come with you. You didn’t have time. You hated leaving him like this, in distress, but Leah was likely seconds away from no longer being able to be resuscitated.

“Robby!” You called out as nurses were already opening an intubation kit. You heard Robby behind you before you saw him, too focused on securing Leah’s airway, “This is Jake’s girlfriend, Leah. Jake’s fine, I think he might have been shot in the leg.”

“Okay,” Robby said, and you could hear in his voice the worry warring with what he was seeing in front of him, “Okay, you go take care of Jake, I’ll take Leah.”

You had finished the intubation and another nurse had climbed on the gurney to begin CPR. They had lost her pulse, “I… I don’t think she’s gonna make it.” You said softly to Robby, voice wavering slightly.

“Let me worry about that.”

You glanced at him and recognized immediately the tunnel vision he was having. This was the problem he was determined to solve and you worried it was not solvable, “Robby–”

“Jake.” He said shortly, “Go. I’ll call you if I need you.”

You did not like this. You did not like it one bit. But you backed away, turning your attention to the rest of central that was a flurry of activity and zeroed in on Jack, “Could you keep an eye on Robby?” You asked as you passed him, “He’s working on Jake’s girlfriend who I think had a bullet tear through her heart. He has that goddamn savior complex chip on his shoulder today and I’m worried it might break him when she doesn’t make it.”

“Yeah, I got him,” Jack said, looking up briefly to spot Robby, “Jake–?”

“He’s fine,” You said quickly, “I’m gonna go patch him up now, I think he just took some bullet fragments to the leg.”

Jack nodded and bumped his fist to yours, “I’ll shout if I need you.”

You smirked, it was nice to be working with Jack again. It had only been a few shifts, but you missed the banter and the the way the two of you had worked so seamlessly together, “Same here.” You said, and then you headed to find Jake.

***

It was a while later after you had patched Jake up and made your way back to the red zone after promising to check up on Leah. Immediately, you saw Robby, still working on Leah, hopeless faces all around him.

“Was looking for you,” Jack said, coming to your side, “He won’t let her go.”

“Fuck,” You sighed, heart sinking.

“He’s wasting resources–”

“I know,” You said quickly. You knew what he was doing, because it was what you would have done. What you had begged Robby to do years ago when your niece came in and he insisted she was gone. It was what you and Robby had done together when you put Adamson on ECMO. “I know.” You repeated, more to yourself the second time.

“He thought he had the pulse back for a few seconds, but when Emery came to check it was gone again.”

You swallowed, “Okay, thanks.” You patted him on the back before heading over to Robby, biting hard on the inside of your cheek.

“Robby,” You said softly when you were close enough. Briefly, you exchanged a look with Dana who subtly shook her head at you, “Robby, I think that’s enough.”

He looked up at you and gave you a quick shake of his head, “No, no she’s right on the edge, we can still get her back–”

“How long has she been down?”

“People have had their hearts restarted after being without a pulse for thirty or forty minutes.”

“Not when a bullet has torn through it. Not when there’s that much blood loss.” You said quietly, “I know you know she’s gone. If you’re not calling it because you don’t want to tell Jake, I can do it–”

“No,” He shook his head and sighed, “No, I–I can do it.”

You waited and watched while he did one last pulse check, voice shaking as he called time of death, marked it on her wrist chart, and covered her up.

“How’s Jake?” He asked, turning back to you.

Your eyes searched him, looking for new and infected wounds. You knew they were there, hiding just below his skin. Knew it like you knew your own.

“He’s fine. There was a lot of bleeding, but it was all superficial. I debrided and wrapped the wound. He’s sitting on a gurney now to keep the wounded leg elevated.”

He nodded along as you spoke, but you weren’t sure how much he really heard beyond the fact that Jake was fine. You reached for his hand, hoping to ground him, but at the brush of your fingers he pulled away, “You should get back out to Triage.”

You frowned, “Shen’s got it–”

“No, I want a more senior attending on triage. Please.” He threw his bloodied gloves away and walked away before you could say anything else.

It was frustrating, watching him walk off like that, knowing he was teetering on the edge. Wanting to follow after him, knowing you couldn’t. He had to tell Jake himself, and then you’d be there to pick up the pieces. Like you always were.

One last time, you told yourself. Just one more, then you could let him go. You’d let him go, it was what you should do, what you needed to do. It was too late for third act love confessions, things were too broken between you. What happened in the ambulance bay didn’t change anything, but you could be there for him one last time.

“Hey,” You grabbed Dana gently by the arm as she passed you, “You’ll come get me if… If Robby seems…”

She nodded, “Yeah, of course, kid.”

You gazed off back in the direction Robby had disappeared into for one last moment before heading back to the ambulance bay.

***

Someone was knocking at the door. It pulled you from the edge of sleep back into full consciousness. You waited for a few moments as you woke, lying on your back in bed, hoping you had imagined it or he had left.

Because you knew who was at the door. You had fought with him earlier on shift. He was snapping at residents and nurses, and then he had snapped at you.

“You need to fucking get it together. You do not speak to me or anyone else like that—“

“I don’t need another fucking lecture from you, alright? I shouldn’t have raised my voice, understood. I’m sorry, can we please move on—“

“No, Robby,” You laughed incredulously and ran a hand through your hair, “We can’t move on because you insist on staying stuck on the same fucked up carousel ride.”

He shook his head, “This isn’t about Adamson.”

“Oh, give me a break. You think I can’t see that trying to fill his shoes at the same time you’re grieving him is tearing you apart?”

“It’s not. I’m fine, I can handle it.”

You sighed and looked down at your shoes, “I can’t do this anymore. I won’t enable your self destructive behaviors, I’ve asked you over and over to see a goddamn psychologist and you don’t listen—“

“That’s because I don’t need a psychologist.”

“Then explain to me why you keep showing up to my apartment in the middle of the night fully in the throes of a panic attack?” He wouldn’t look at you, jaw clenched and staring off stubbornly in the distance, “You need professional help,” You said quietly, “And if you’re not gonna get it then I can’t keep doing… Whatever this is.” You gestured to the space between you.

He shrugged, “Fine. Are we done?”

You stared at him for a moment and then sneered, “You don’t think I mean it.”

He sighed and looked down at his feet, hands shoved deep in his pockets, “I didn’t say that.”

“Okay,” You scoffed, “Don’t show up at my door tonight.” You said and began walking away.

“Won’t be a problem.” He called after you.

But now there was someone knocking at your door. You waited, counted to thirty and back down again, but the knocking continued.

“Motherfucker,” You murmured and swung your legs over the edge of your bed, forced your feet to move to the door. You looked through the peep hole and saw Robby, head bent towards your door, fist resting against the wood.

Sighing, you unlocked the door and opened it just enough so you could see him, “What are you doing here?”

He looked up at you, eyes red rimmed and glassy, his chest heaving in and out, uneven breaths, “I’m sorry.” He choked out.

You ran a hand over your face, “I asked you not to do this.”

“I know, I know, I–I swear I’ll do whatever you need me to, I’ll call the psychologist in the morning, please.” He reached for you, his fingers settling on your hips, “Please.”

Every time he did this, every time he showed up, a wreck at your door, you remembered how he showed up for you when you didn’t want to be found. When you were intent on destroying yourself and everything around you. He had reached an unflinching hand down into the cold dark abyss of your grief and hauled you out. It wasn’t lost on you that he’d saved your life that year.

You didn’t know how you could refuse him.

You blinked away the wetness in your own eyes and pushed the door open further, lacing your fingers with his as you did. After closing and relocking the door, you led him to the couch, turning on a single lamp as you sat down, pulling him after you.

Robby immediately laid his head in your lap and you stroked his hair, his beard. Between his hyperventilating and sobs, he whispered apologies and promises into the bare skin of your thighs. It felt like a well choreographed dance at that point, your reassuring touch and his contrition.

When his breathing slowed and quieted, you squeezed his shoulder lightly, “Let me make you some tea.”

He sat up and trailed after you as you went to the kitchen. When you filled the kettle with water and turned it on, you braced your hands against the counter, facing away from him. It was hard to be with him like this, knowing how many times he had come here just like this, apologized and made promises he wasn’t going to keep. You were tired and worn down and still trying to come to terms with your own grief.

He came up behind you as you waited for the water to heat and wrapped his arms around your waist. “I’m sorry,” He kept repeating, peppering kisses to your shoulders. You weren’t sure why he was still apologizing. Perhaps because he knew he was just going to do it all over again a few days from now and he was trying to get ahead of it.

He pushed the straps from your tank top down and began sucking lightly at the skin, his beard scratching against your skin in a way you were all too familiar with, that sent goosebumps down your arms.

“Robby…” You said lowly, because you knew you should stop him. You knew what came next, when you’d be powerless against his touch and his kisses, all grievances forgotten.

“Please,” He murmured against your skin, “Let me do this, let me make it better.”

You swallowed hard and then turned in his arms. You placed your hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him away, “Tea first.” You said softly, and then turned back to the kettle, waited for him to step away from you, waited for your pulse to settle with the absence of his touch.

Once the tea was steeped, you pushed his mug toward him and warmed your hands around your own. You could feel him staring at you from across the counter, but you wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“Do you remember when Gemma died and I refused help for months and months until Adamson removed me from the ER?”

He was silent a moment, and then you heard him clear his throat, “Yes. Of course I remember and I know what you’re trying to do. This is different.”

You looked up at that, head tilting curiously, “Really? How so? Because Adamson isn’t here to kick you out?”

He sighed, “No, because I’m not endangering patients.”

You nodded, “Maybe not the way I was. Maybe not right now. But eventually the grief and the hurt will grow so big you won’t be able to keep it from spilling over into everything. Your family, your friends, your work. It’s inevitable.”

“I already said I would call the psychologist in the morning.”

You looked back down at your mug, “I think we both know you only said that so I’d let you in. Like you always do.”

Neither of you said anything for a while after that, until finally, Robby broke the silence, “Let’s go to bed.”

You nodded, let him lead you to the bedroom. His careful hands undressed you, pulled you into him, kissed you in the dark until your lips were raw and aching. Foreheads bent together, he pushed himself into you. The sex was so good sometimes, you allowed yourself to forget. You loved his hands, the way he touched you, the way that he gripped your hips so tightly when he was about to come it left marks like ripened plums.

For a while after, you’d feel better, his arms wrapped around you as you drifted into sleep.

But then, the morning would come and Robby would leave silently. Forget everything he had said to you the night before. And the cycle would repeat.

You didn’t know how else to reach him. Part of you thought maybe if he just loved you the way you loved him, he would've gotten better by now. It was what had gotten through to you, the thought that you were worrying him, that he was scared for you. You didn’t want him to feel like that. And eventually you realized you didn’t want to feel that way forever, either. But it had been his concern that pushed you over the edge.

It didn’t seem to affect Robby that you were upset. That you felt alone in your own grief because you were so busy trying to make sure he wouldn’t drown in his.

It made you feel like a failure. So you stopped trying to reach him. You let him in when he showed up at your place, held him and let him take you to bed and you stopped asking him to go to therapy.

If he tried to pick a fight at work, you stopped taking the bait. You just… checked out.

It wasn’t long after that he turned his attention to Heather.

It devastated you, but it also felt a bit freeing. You felt like it gave you permission to fully push him out and close the door, knowing there was someone on the other side of it with him.

Perhaps it was unfair to Heather, to unknowingly burden her with that, but you could feel yourself slipping. Your therapist was starting to gently suggest that if something didn’t change, she would have to recommend an inpatient program.

So you fully disappeared from Robby’s life.

***

Robby was missing. You had come back inside as triage was starting to quiet and you thought they might need more hands inside.

You had gone to yellow to see what the new kids were up to and had walked right into Mohan giving a guy a burr hole with an IO.

You had stopped short, wide eyed as you watched, “Holy shit.” You breathed as she extracted some blood and the man began to regain consciousness.

All heads turned to you in a panic.

Mohan immediately launched into an anxious explanation, “There were no attendings, he would’ve died—“

“Samira, relax. It’s fine, it’s excellent, even. You did what you had to to save a life. Just maybe… Don’t mention this to Robby, yeah?”

She gave you a small smile, “Won’t be a problem. Nobody can seem to find him anyway.”

You frowned, “What do you mean?”

“Nobody’s seen much of him since they took Leah to pedes.”

You shook your head, “Okay, um, are you guys good over here? Nobody’s dying?”

They all looked at you blankly like a bunch of little ducklings until Samira said, “I think we’re okay, you go find Robby.”

You gave them all and their patients another once over, not entirely convinced by their silence, and then started quickly walking to pedes.

What greeted you on the other side of the pedes door stopped you short. Robby was on the floor, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks as he clutched the Magen David that hung on a chain around his throat in a shaking hand. He was murmuring something to himself in what sounded like Hebrew.

It took you a minute, but you recognized it as a prayer. You had heard him recite it only once before, shortly before he had extubated Adamson. Shema, you thought he’d called it the first time you asked. A declaration of faith. A plea for protection.

Immediately, you turned back to the door, pulling the privacy curtain in front of the glass door.

Then, you sat on the floor next to him, said nothing, but put a hand on his leg and waited. After a moment, he turned to you and buried his face in your chest. It surprised you, the way seeing him like this seemed to have your walls springing a leak. The emotions you’d kept at bay for most of the day began to push forward.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” He said over and over into your chest, knotting his hands into your scrubs and pulling you impossibly closer.

You weren’t sure who the apologies were meant for. For Leah. For Adamson. For you. All he had wanted, you knew, was to be forgiven. He couldn’t or wouldn’t forgive himself and so needed everyone else to.

“It’s okay,” You said, voice shaking as you brought a hand up to cradle his head to your chest. You pressed a kiss to his head, “You’re okay.”

You held him like that for a couple of minutes, until his breathing settled enough, “We have to get back out there.” You said quietly.

“I don’t think I can.”

You sighed through your nose, “What happened? With Leah?”

“I told Jake,” He sniffled and pulled away from you, rubbing the tears from his face with the heels of his hands, “And he blamed me. And I know what you’ll say, that he didn’t mean it. That he loves me. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? The logic of it?” He raised his hands between the two of you, “Everything I’ve ever loved in my adult life I’ve broken with these two hands. Adamson, you, now Jake.” He lowered his hands and shook his head, “I’m done. I can’t do it anymore.”

You bit your lip as you tried to find the words, “You’re framing everything the wrong way. I know you’ve heard it a thousand times, but there was nothing else you could’ve done about Adamson. And besides, I was there too. I helped make those decisions. Do you blame me for what happened?”

He looked at you sadly, “Of course not.”

“What makes you any more culpable for what happened than me? Because it was your hands that physically extubated him? That’s silly.”

He ran a hand over his face, “And what about you, hm? Can you say you don’t blame me for all the pain and suffering you’ve endured the last few years? More than that, even?”

Your eyes softened as you examined each line of his face, each freckle. It was true that he had been the source of a lot of hurt in your adult life, but he had also been a lifeline.

You raised a hand to his cheek, brushed your thumb tenderly over his cheekbone, “There have been many times over the years where your friendship was the only thing standing between me and a black hole.” You swallowed thickly, “I would do it all again just for the chance to know you.”

His face threatened to crumble and he reached a shaky hand to the back of your neck, pulling you to him until your foreheads touched, “I would, too.”

“We have to go back out there.” You said softly after a few moments.

He nodded, “Yeah. Fuck.” He pulled away and rubbed at his face.

You rose to standing and he followed suit, both of you going your separate ways outside of pedes without so much as a goodbye.

***

You nearly physically collided into Janey when you were heading to the ambulance bay to check on triage, your hands immediately reaching out to steady her, “Oh, shit–Sorry–Janey?”

She smiled tightly at you and you dropped your hands, “Hi, Y/N.” Her words were terse and sharp, but you dismissed that as just stress from the crisis that had unfolded over the last few hours, “It’s been a while.”

You nodded, “Yeah, um,” You gestured over your shoulder, “I can take you to Jake, he’s doing alright, but–”

“Could you just take me to Robby, please?”

She was avoiding making eye contact with you, which you thought was strange. Lips pressed in a firm line and shoulders tensed. It was true you hadn’t seen her since her and Robby had broken up, but you didn’t remember her being so cold to you before.

“Uh, yeah, sure.” You swallowed, “Just wait by the hub, I’ll be right back.”

Once you brought Robby to Janey, you went behind the hub towards Dana.

“Seems like Janey still holds a grudge, huh?” Dana said, smirking at you from over her glasses.

Things had finally slowed down enough that they could catch their breath and start getting the emergency room back up and running. You cracked open a can of Diet Coke and took a sip as you turned to Dana.

You frowned at her, “Why would Janey be holding a grudge against me?”

Dana’s smirk widened, “It is so exhausting sometimes bearing the entire historical archive of this emergency room on my shoulders.”

Scowling at her, you waited, “Well?”

“Why do you think Janey and Robby broke up?”

In truth, you didn’t think much about Janey and Robby’s relationship anymore. It was one of Robby’s longer relationships and as such, you had tried to bury your feelings for him six feet under while they were together for fear that it would be the one to take him away from you for good. Besides which, Gemma had died while they were still together, and in the months that followed your memory was pretty fuzzy.

“I don’t remember,” You said slowly, “I don’t remember much from then other than my crushing existential dread.”

She looked at you sympathetically and patted your hand lightly with her own, “Maybe you do remember how Robby was with you nearly 24/7 for a while after Gemma died. Because he was worried for you.”

You shrugged, “Yeah, sure. I think 24/7 might be exaggerating, though.”

“Well, it was enough that it bothered Janey.”

You narrowed your eyes at Dana, “Are you implying that they broke up because of me?”

“Sweetheart,” Dana shook her head, “Robby made the choices he did, it wasn’t your fault. But the way he told it to me was that he was out to dinner with Janey, someone called worried about you and Robby was going to go to you, but Janey made him choose. Said she was tired of being second choice and if he left they were done. So Robby chose you.”

You blinked at her and then turned your attention to where Robby was talking to Janey, “He said that?”

“Yeah, kid.” Dana sighed, “Janey thinks she lost him to you.”

You scoffed and turned back to Dana, “Well, joke’s on her I guess, because we both lost him.”

Dana shook her head as you walked off toward another patient, watched Robby’s head turn to follow your movement as you walked by him, “I don’t know about that, kiddo.”

***

Robby was, quite literally, too close to the edge. The moon cast shadows on the roof of PTMC as he looked out over the Pittsburgh skyline. It was early enough that he could still hear the rush of the cars below and the faint call of sirens. He had just got done notifying Leah’s family and he couldn’t breathe again. All he knew was that he wanted it to stop.

He didn’t want to tell another family he had failed to save their loved one. He was tired of having to hold the whole ER together, he wasn’t sure he could keep teaching incoming doctors when he didn’t think he deserved to keep practicing medicine himself. He wanted so badly to keep them all from making his mistakes, but the fuck of it all was that he thought that was probably inevitable. That it was a necessary evil to become a doctor.

He wanted to stop letting you down, but he thought it was too late for that. You were leaving and it was his fault. No matter what you said earlier, even if you really didn’t blame him, it was unforgivable how he’d treated you.

And a small part of him thought, as he looked over the edge, that things would be better without him. Maybe they’d make you head of the department. It was what should have happened in the first place anyway. PTMC wouldn’t lose you as a result of his failings.

Then he heard the soft padding of your footsteps behind him, a gait he could recognize anywhere, in his sleep, in the busiest train station.

You leaned over the railing behind him and sighed, “Wish you wouldn’t stand so close.” You said quietly.

“I’ve seen you stand closer.”

You huffed a laugh, “Always a competition with us, isn’t it?”

“No,” He said, “Not anymore. I’m done.”

There’s a beat of silence, then, “That’s a scary fucking thing to say when you’re on the edge of a roof.”

“Yeah, well, it’s how I feel. Isn’t that what you’ve always asked me to do? Talk about my feelings?”

He heard you blow out a long breath, “The police found the shooter, I don’t know if you heard. It wasn’t David.” He didn’t say anything, so you continued, “Thought you’d want to know. You were right about him.”

He huffed a laugh, “Yippee.” He murmured, heavy with sarcasm, “Doesn’t fucking matter. People are still dead.”

“No one else could have gotten our department through a mass casualty like that with only six fatalities. Except maybe Adamson.” A beat of silence passed between you, “PTMC needs you. I need you.”

He heard the note of fear and desperation in your voice, “You don’t need me. You’re leaving. Because of me.”

“It’s not because of you–”

“Bullshit.”

You sighed, “I’m leaving to prove to myself that I… That I can do it on my own. Without you. I need you. I’ll probably always need you or want you in some capacity. PTMC is home to me, but only if you’re here.” You inhaled a shaky breath, “I’m leaving, just for a little while, because we’re destroying each other. And we both need to heal without the other. You’ve only ever wanted me when things were bad, when you were falling apart. You might not want me once you get your shit together.”

He turned to face you finally, leaning his forearms on the railing next to you, “I can’t imagine a time when I won’t want you. My only problem has ever been wanting you too much.”

You looked at him sadly and shook your head, “It never felt that way to me.”

He watched you carefully, noted the way the breeze blew a piece of your hair into your face. Without thinking, he reached out and gently tucked it behind your ear. His fingers lingered and then traced a path down your neck before he dropped them back to the railing. He nodded, “I know that. And I’m sorry.” He sighed, “But you’ll come back to the Pitt?”

“I hope so,” The corners of your lips tugged up slightly, “Depends on if you really mean it. About getting professional help.”

“I mean it.” He said, “Do you think…” He paused and cleared his throat, “Do you think you’ll ever want to give it a real chance? You and me?”

You swallowed and looked down at your hands, “I don’t know. It’s difficult for me to imagine being with you in a way that isn’t painful.”

He closed his eyes against the wave of hurt that sent through him. It was his own fault, he knew. He had had any number of opportunities to tell you how he really felt over the years. But he had hidden from it like a coward.

“I’m not… I’m not saying never,” You said slowly, “I love you,” You reached your hand forward, running your fingers gently along his jaw, through his beard, “And I’ll always be here whenever you need me. But I… I don’t want to put us both in another situation that’s… unsustainable.”

“I love you, too.” He covered your hand with his own, keeping it anchored to his cheek, “I understand.”

“Will you come down now?” You asked quietly and he heard the way your breath caught in your throat as you said it.

He stared at you for a few moments, committing the image of you up here with your eyes that glinted in the moonlight to memory. The way the softness of your hand felt against his skin. He wasn’t sure when he’d feel your touch again, if ever. The thought sent an ache through him.

“Yeah,” He sighed, “Let’s get out of here.”

***

Six Weeks Later

You and Robby hadn’t spoken since you left the Pitt four weeks ago. Even before that, the conversation had been sparse. You had helped get him a referral to a therapist at the same clinic as your own therapist. You knew he had been attending sessions because you occasionally ran into him to and from your own appointments. But you would mostly just nod at each other as you crossed paths.

Now that you were gone, the day shift felt emptier. He longed to text or call you, but held back each time.

“What’s stopping you from reaching out?” His therapist had asked during a session.

Robby shrugged, “She doesn’t want me to.”

“Did she say that?”

“I–Well, no.”

His therapist had nodded and jotted down some notes, “Do you think it’s possible that the real obstacle is that you’ve always used her as a method to punish yourself and you’re just continuing the pattern of behavior by not reaching out?”

That had stunned him to silence. And he still thought about it now, a couple weeks later, as he walked around the Pitt. He saw your ghost in every corner of this place.

When he walked into the staff break room that day, Perlah and Princess had a bunch of sticky notes around them and looked up in horror when they saw who had walked in.

He smirked, “What’s this? Recent betting pool?” He looked over the sticky notes, “I don’t remember any pools since the ambulance was stolen.”

Perlah looked at him nervously, “Uh, no, it’s uh– It’s an old one.”

He picked up a neon green sticky note that read Marriage. $100.

Robby frowned, “This looks like Adamson’s handwriting.” Princess and Perlah both just stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to say, “How old is this?”

Princess elbowed Perlah when neither of them spoke, “It’s from around 2018 or 2019,” She sighed, “There was a stupid bet going around about you and Y/N. We… We were gonna revive it when she came back to the day shift, but…”

But you were gone now.

Robby blinked and waved around the sticky note, “And Adamson was part of it?”

Princess smirked, “He was one of the first to make a bet.”

Robby reread the sticky note, “He thought we were gonna get married.” He said softly, “Can I keep this?”

Princess and Perlah both nodded and then Robby headed out to the ambulance bay, the sticky note with Adamson’s handwriting still in his hand.

With his other hand, he pulled out his phone, waited for his Face ID to unlock before opening the Phone app and clicking on his Favorites. You were at the top of his list and his thumb hovered over your contact picture as he stared at the sticky note.

Do you think it’s possible that the real obstacle is that you’ve always used her as a method to punish yourself and you’re just continuing the pattern of behavior by not reaching out?

He didn’t want to punish himself anymore. He wanted to be worthy of good things, of you. Adamson thought he was deserving of good things, as evidenced by a years old sticky note. You had thought so, too, once upon a time.

He pressed his thumb against your name and brought the phone up to his ear.

“Hi,” He said when you picked up, closing his eyes at the sound of your voice, “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” You said slowly, “Sorry, is–is everything okay with you?”

“Yeah,” He said, running a thumb over the old sharpie ink, “Yeah, I just, I wanted to hear your voice. Is that okay?”

There was a moment of silence, “Yeah, of course. It’s nice to hear your voice, too.”

“How’s Presby?”

You gave a short laugh, “It’s not home, but it’s alright. I’m adjusting.”

He hummed, “There’s always a place waiting for you here, you know?”

“I know.”

He cleared his throat, “I’m off on Sunday and I was wondering, if you’re also off, if you’d want to just– I don’t know, grab a coffee, go for a walk or something. Catch up.”

You’re quiet for a while and he told himself it would be okay if you said no. If you didn’t want to see him.

“I’d like that,” You said softly, “But, just to be clear, I am accepting a platonic coffee date, yes?”

He smirked, “Yes. I just want to see you.”

He listened as you took a deep inhale, “You sound better. Therapy’s helping?”

“I think so, yeah.” And he means it. He is starting to feel just a little bit better.

“Have you called Jake?”

He bent over his knees, resting his head against his free hand, “I have, yeah.”

“And?” You asked after a moment of silence.

“It’s still not great, but he said he’d be willing to come to a therapy appointment with me. To try and start sorting it out.”

He heard you sigh in relief, “That’s great, Robby. I’m… I’m really proud of you.”

He smiled and felt his eyes water. He was so happy he had called you.

The two of you slipped into an unspoken tradition, walking side by side through the park by the river, mostly on Sundays, or whenever your schedules lined up. It was easy and it was fun and for once it wasn't heavy with unspoken grief and trauma. If something triggered a conversation about Adamson or Gemma, for the most part you were both able to navigate it without fighting, without shutting down.

Until six months have passed since you left PTMC and Robby’s walking you all the way back up to your apartment.

“Um, do you…?” You looked at him almost shyly, a flush working its way up your neck. It’s so ridiculous to think that you might have been nervous around him, it had a smirk stretching across his face, “Do you wanna come in?”

He wanted to, badly. He was overjoyed that you seemed to want his company as much as he wanted yours. But the two of you were in a good spot right now and he was so scared he might fuck it up.

Robby had stuck Adamson’s sticky note to his fridge when he had gotten home that day as a sort of unspoken goal for himself. He wanted to marry you one day, if that was something you also wanted. His therapist had told him that if he did want that, he was going to have to do things that scared the shit out of him sometimes.

Like go into your apartment when invited, even if he worried he would make a mess of things again.

“You have to learn how to trust yourself again or you’ll stay stuck here in the same patterns, shackled to your self doubt and unable to move forward.”

He swallowed, “Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

You lasted all of two minutes before he was pushing you against a wall and kissing you. His hands were almost frantic as they touched you, but he kissed you slowly and thoroughly, almost tenderly.

It had been years since he had been able to kiss you without there being some fight or other tension looming above you. It felt freeing that all he felt now was love and longing.

He took you to the couch, undressing you as he did and you were moaning into his mouth, grabbing at his shirt and running your fingers over the skin there. He laid you down on the couch and pulled his shirt over his head, watched the way your eyes traced down his chest hungrily.

“I missed you,” He murmured, lowering himself over you again, palming one of your breasts in his hand.

You hummed and arched your back into his touch as he watched one of your nipples pebble beneath his thumb.

“I’ve been thinking about this, about being able to touch you again, from the moment you left.” He panted and kissed his way down your chest, your stomach, until he reached the tops of your thighs.

“Me too,” You sighed, and then his mouth was on you, hot and needy, “Fuck, I missed you.”

He’s surprised to find that he still knows just what you like, exactly how much pressure to apply, how fast he needs to go to bring you to the edge. It’s muscle memory, like performing a medical procedure he hasn’t done in years, his hands still know what to do, but his brain is three steps behind. Your hand knotted in his hair and he watched eagerly as your hips bucked up and into his mouth until you’re coming and he’s sucking up every last drop of you.

When you caught your breath, you sat up and pushed him onto his back. He was happy to lie back and watch you and in fact, he relished the way you looked at him. Kissed every patch of his skin you could reach, an adoring look in your eyes. He thought he had to have been an idiot to have never noticed the way you looked at him before.

You sank down onto him, both of you sighing in unison as you adjusted to the stretch of him. “You okay, honey?” He asked breathlessly, gripping your chin in his hand.

You nodded and rolled your hips. It had been years now since he’d slept with someone and the sensation of you around him, just that slow grinding of your hips, had him seeing stars, “Jesus fuck.” He swore.

You sped up your movements slowly and he helped move you up and down, gripping your hips as you pressed your hands to his chest. He could feel that you were already barreling straight towards another orgasm, your walls pulsing around him, and that was fine, because there was no way he was gonna last much longer.

“Can you touch yourself for me, sweetheart?” He asked breathlessly, “I want to watch you touch yourself. Want you to come with me.”

Your eyelids fluttered open as you processed what he said, and still grinding down on him, you circled your fingers over your clit, “That’s it,” He sighed, “Just like that.”

Your moans grew louder and your hips moved faster and faster. You looked euphoric as you tumbled over the edge again and you were so fucking gorgeous, he was immediately coming, swearing as he did.

Both of you trying to catch your breath, you folded forward, laying down against his bare, sweat slicked chest. He ran a hand over your hair as you settled, watched the rise and fall of your breathing, and was overcome with such tenderness for you his chest ached and his eyes watered.

“I love you,” He said quietly, tears caught in his throat, “In case you were unsure, I still love you.”

You pushed yourself up slightly so you could see his face. Your cheeks were flushed and sticky with sweat, “I know,” You said and smirked, “I love you, too.”

He kissed you again, sighed as your fingers came up to scratch at his beard, “Could I take you out to dinner next week? Only if… If you’re ready. I want to try to do things right, this time.”

You nudged your nose against his and bit your lip. This was dangerous, this hope that was building in your chest. But he was trying, was going to therapy, was voicing his feelings as he was feeling them. Was doing all this for himself, but also for you.

“Yes,” You pushed your lips forward to give him a quick peck, “Take me out to dinner, Michael.”

He smiled against your mouth and thought again of that sticky note on his fridge. One day, he’d show it to you. That was a promise he wouldn’t break.

#dr robby x reader #mine #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt fic #dr robby fic #robby x reader #the pitt fanfic #dr robby angst #dr robby smut #the pitt x reader

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no-144444 · 2 months ago

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always does- i.hadjar

꩜summary: as isack's best friend, you're a little oblivious until you're not

꩜pairing: isack hadjar x fem! reader

You never understood why Isack kept you so close-by (in a metaphorical sense, of course). You were his best friend, yeah. You didn’t wander away from him, even when he moved. You just… worked through the distance and the time differences, and you were as strong as before. You didn’t pull away too much when he had a girlfriend and you didn’t expect him to pull away too much when you got a boyfriend. When you guys were together, you were there to be together in whatever you were doing. It didn’t matter if it was a simple walk, or a day out at a theme park, time together was few and far between, so you had to make it count. Your other friends stepped back for the day, Isack stood or sat by your side, his hand brushing yours until he eventually took it. And you’d stay like that. Sleep in the same bed. Make morning coffee together. Brush your teeth together. Domestic shit, but it didn’t matter. Isack and you weren’t like that, you never would be.

Obviously, you knew he was hot. Anyone with eyes and a brain saw the fact that he was conventionally attractive. But you never had that switch in your mind that your other friends had with their guy friends. They spoke about it like some day they just started seeing them differently. Like it was quick. Like it was a snap of fingers, and suddenly you're in love with him. It wasn’t the same for you. Isack was just… Isack. Your Isack. The Isack who bought you ice cream and held your hand walking down the streets of Venice, and that same Isack who would push you into the bushes in his back garden when you raced each other. He hadn’t changed much, just got taller, his voice got deeper, and he was an F1 driver. You hadn’t changed much either, ass and tits, hair longer than when you were five, and you finally didn’t work on the other side of the world, you were in Paris and he was in Monaco.

“Come to Monaco,” he begged over the phone. “I’m so bored on my own and it’s so weird here.”

“I literally told you so, Isack,” you chuckled. “And anyway, I’ve a date this weekend, so I’m busy.”

He stopped. “A date? Like with a guy?” he asked. “Why do you have a date?”

You scoffed. “Wow, thanks. And it’s just this guy who asked for my number at work. He’s sweet.”

“Seriously?” he scoffed. You didn’t notice the way his chest tightened and his jaw clenched. You didn’t see the way his breath hitched. “Just reschedule, please. I want you here.”

A younger you would’ve given in with the way he pouted, but you had a date. A date you wanted to attend. “No can-do pretty boy,” you shook your head, and he nearly passed out from the pet name. You didn’t see it, but caught a glimpse of the time. “Oh shit, I better go. Work,” you sighed, getting up. You didn’t wait for an answer. “Love you,” you smiled into your phone camera and hung up, knowing he'd say it back.

“You’re so fucked for her, aren’t you?” Liam chuckled, sitting beside Isack. It pulled him out of the small world he created on the phone with you. When he saw your apartment, he just thought of the nights he spent there, the smell of the vanilla candles, the warm lights, the wool blankets, you. Isack groaned, putting his phone back into his pocket and looking at his hands. He didn’t like to talk about it. He didn’t really know what to say about it. “Talk,” Liam shrugged. “What’s going on?” “Nothing,” he shrugged. “That’s the problem.”

“She doesn’t like you back?” he asked, cracking open a can of redbull and handing it to him, then opening one for himself.

He sighed. “She doesn’t. She doesn’t notice me. I’m just her best friend.”

“Have you talked to her about it?” Liam asked.

“How am I supposed to admit something like that?” he questioned. “What if she hates me and doesn’t ever want to talk to me again? What if I lose her completely?”

It was his worst fear. More scary than crashing the car, than losing his seat, than anything. He couldn’t lose you. He refused.

“I think you need to evaluate what you want and whether or not you can keep going like this,” Liam offered. “And I’m happy to listen more, if you need it.”

Since when was Liam so philosophical? He listened to Zach Bryan for god’s sake. He got up, tapped Isack on the shoulder, and left him to ruminate.

He remembered the exact moment he’d fallen for you. You were 15. You had come to visit him at Spa for one of his F4 races, and he’d won. He ran out of the car. You were waiting at the barrier. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you. You stood there, looking so proud, so caring, so you. He couldn’t get enough. He’d race the hell out of any car anyone handed him if it meant he saw that look on your face. And you’d hugged him. You’d kissed his cheek. You stayed up all night celebrating and fell asleep beside him. You didn’t question the way he was looking at you, because maybe he’d always looked at you like that. Maybe it was just him realising then.

But you didn’t feel the same, and that was fine. He didn’t care. Well, he cared a lot, but he wasn’t going to make it your problem.

Quali was long and which was good and bad. Good, because it meant he was starting 4th in Monaco, which was incredible. Bad, because it meant he didn’t have his phone on him to track your location and watch your date play out in real time. Which is a totally normal thing to do, right?

He jumped out of the car, searching for Liam, or Ollie, or someone to talk to about how shitty the tires would be the next day, but he turned his head to the left and caught a glimpse of a face he knew all too well.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” he practically squealed. Ollie would have laughed, but he didn’t care. He wrapped his arm around your waist, lifting you up and against him. “Holy shit,” he breathed into your hair. Like he didn’t believe you were real. Like he couldn’t trust his senses.

And it was like your eyes opened.

You liked sleeping in the same bed as Isack. You like brushing your teeth beside him. You like the way he treats you. You liked the way he had kissed you on your 18th birthday when you were both wine drunk in Paris, walking along the river.

You froze for a moment. You didn’t let him go. He didn’t seem to care, though he untucked his head from your neck and stared at you, confused. “Are you alright?” he asked, his face changing to panic. “Y/n.”

“You’re incredible!” you shook yourself back into the moment, as if you hadn’t just had the most insane realisation of your life. “4th in fucking Monaco!”

He chuckled, his panic easing. “I know right,” he smirked. “I might just have to be your favourite driver now.”

“Of course you are,” you rolled your eyes. “Always have been,” he didn’t recognise the way you were looking at him, but he welcomed it all the same. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat.”

“You’re quiet,” he whispered, nudging your arm with his own. The paddock was loud and full of his name, but he still noticed you. Well, it would be hard no to, for him. “What’s up?”

You looked down, seeing where your foot collided with his in a constant, soft game of footsies. “Nothing, the sky,” you listed, stifling a giggle. He rolled his eyes and looked up, sighing. It gave you time to look at him. Notice the way his neck had gotten bigger, see the progress he’d made with his training, observe his bulging biceps and arms. Holy shit you had it bad for him, maybe all your mates were right? No, it couldn’t be. Because it wasn’t fast. You’d slowly fallen for him, over a matter of years. Slowly, you’d gotten used to the small things he does for you, you appreciated the hugs and cheek kisses, the protective arm around your shoulder every now and then, that stupid laugh you’d fallen so hard for. It wasn’t this quick, free-fall. It was slow, like a leaf falling down in the autumn wind. It was different. It was Isack. “I don’t know. This weekend just feels… different. Maybe you’ll get on that podium.”

He chuckled, turning to face you. “I think something’s gone to your head,” he teased. “You sure it’s redbull in that can?”

You scoffed, playfully pushing him. “Never say never. Some things change, even when we don’t expect them too.”

He stared at you, seeing that look in your eye again. “We’re alright?” he questioned.

You nodded. “Always.”

And once again, you walked away, leaving Isack all alone with his feelings. Liam always walked by at the right time, it was disturbing. “She’s in love with you, mate.”

Isack jumped, not hearing his teammate join him on the bench (he was too busy looking at you longingly). “What the fuck-?!”

“She has it bad for you mate, I know these things,” he nodded. “You should ask her out, she’ll say yes.”

“Do you remember any of our conversation from the other day?” He stared at him in disbelief as Liam shrugged. “And, I didn’t even think she was coming this weekend so what has changed between then and now, huh?” he questioned, his accent coming out the more he spoke.

Liam cleared his throat. “Exactly mate, you’re welcome,” he smiled. “Nothing like an unrequited love story in Monaco, anything can happen here.”

“You brought her here?” Isack’s jaw dropped. “For what?!”

“For you, you fucking loser,” Liam chuckled. “Talk to her! Ask her out! Take control of your destiny!” the more he spoke the less Isack knew what he was saying. He stared at him dumbstruck as he walked off, winking at him.

What a strange weekend.

Every bone in his body ached to fall into bed, but he just couldn’t sleep. He’d tried everything. Meditation. Breathing exercises. Tea. that navy sleep technique. Visualisations. And now, walking the dark streets of Monaco. The barriers were up. The fanstands were empty, but by tomorrow morning they’d be full. And he’d be in a car on the second row. Part of him couldn’t believe it. Part of him didn’t want to. He had trouble sometimes with taking pride in his work, maybe because in his mind it was an obligation more than an ambition. He didn’t think he’d be truly happy with his career until he lifted that Championship trophy. It didn’t matter how many races he won, how many people called him the goat, or what people said about him. If he didn’t have that trophy it wasn’t worth it. His life’s work wasn’t worth it. And that scared the shit out of him.

“Fancy meeting you here,” you spoke and he turned his head in disbelief. “Missed me too much already?”

You had gone to bed earlier than him, and he didn’t have a chance to offer you his bed. Which was fine. But there you were, standing there in the streets he knew like the back of his hand (well, the hairpin he knew like the back of his hand), wearing your pyjamas out in the mild Monaco air. You couldn’t have looked more beautiful. He took a deep breath. “Always,” he smirked, walking up to you. “What are you doing out here so late?”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Do you always have to be so protective?” you chuckled. “I couldn’t sleep.”

You started walking in step with each other, your hand wrapping around his arm as you spoke. He cleared his throat. “Worried about tomorrow?” he asked, watching your side profile as you kept your eyes ahead.

You turned to him. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”

There was humor in your voice but it fell flat against the tension between the two of you. He was close. Too close. So close. You could feel his breath on your cheek, and he didn’t step back. He just kept staring. Staring and staring at your face as if he hadn’t seen it a thousand and one times. Like he didn’t know the layout of it like he knew the layout of the track beside you. The streetlamps illuminated his eyes, the perfect shade of brown. God, you could’ve just gotten lost in that moment, staring at him, when saying nothing truly meant everything.

He leaned over and his lips met yours. Not like it was planned but, not like it wasn’t either. Just simple, passionate, soft, and delicate. His hand cupped your cheek like he’d bruise it if he touched you too roughly. You didn’t mind. You kissed him back, gently running your hands through his hair as you felt yourself back up against a barrier. He didn’t stop and neither did you.

“I love you,” he breathed out against your lips, not thinking clearly. He was drunk off the taste of you, off the moment. “I’ve loved you for a long time.”

You didn’t answer right away, slightly shocked at the confession. People had mentioned it, pointed it out, or blatantly told you that he was in love with you. You didn’t take it to heart. It was hard not to when his hands were on your face as he kissed you against a barrier in Monaco. Your hands fisted his t-shirt, pulling him closer. “I love you too,” your voice was barely above a whisper, but he heard it. He always did.

He pulled back with that soft smile on his face, fixing your pyjamas slightly. He looked at you with all the care in the world, but then again, he always did.

navigation for my blog :)

redbull & vcarb masterlist

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mellosdrawings · 1 year ago

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The Princes

Ten years later. When marrying a Prince turns a Queen and a Servant into actual Royalties.

Because Vil deserves a real crown and Jamil deserves to be treated better.

NOW I'M GONNA RANT ABOUT MY CHARA DESIGNS CHOICES AND ALL THE DISCOVERIES I MADE WHILE LOOKING FOR REFS! If you only care about art and funny doodles, you can scroll down for a handful of slices of life.

(Don't worry if you can't read my notes, I'm repeating myself better right under this)

Leona

-Lion: As you may know, one of my grievances with Leona is how his hair doesn't look like an actual mane despite being a lion. While I don't want to stray too far from the canon design with the usual drawings, that's the occasion for me to have some fun with a future version. Give that lion a beard and voluminous hair!

-Hair: First, get those bangs out of his face. Despite Leona being very confident, he still has bangs covering his scarred eye. I wanted him to finally own the aspects of him that may be scary to others (his UM, his scar, etc). I actually went with bangs framing his face similar to the ones he had during his Overblot. I wasn't sure whether to give him dreadlocks or curly hair, but I ended up choosing the free curls decorated with some atebas and braids so that Vil could have more fun styling them.

-Eye: Thanks @aria-faye for the idea, I decided to have his eye gradually lose its capacities with time. From a headcanon that, while the eye wasn't directly touched by whatever attack scarred him, the process of healing still had an impact on it and he gradually lost sight in his left eye years after years.

-Body: Not giving him a dad bod (yet, maybe in another ten years), but definitely giving him more voluminous yet casual muscles. Practical muscles with a healthy dose of fat and tissues. Also giving him two full sleeves of tattoos because I decided he should have much more than just his lion tattoo.

-Clothes: Went full Maasai dressing and Kenyan fabrics and beadworks. If you're not familiar with it, please go check it out, it's GORGEOUS!! Crown is beadwork too. He also has one Arabic styled foot jewellery.

Jamil

-Hair: My first order was to remove his double-faced hairstyle and also remove his bangs from his eye. Make him confident enough to show his whole face. Unlike Leona and Vil, he doesn't really want a crown though (he still feels weird about becoming royalty) so instead he uses a braid as crown. Also gave him a little goatee because I like facial hair and Jafar has a beard too.

-Body: He grew up! While he didn't quite catch up with Leona and Vil, he is now closer to their sizes than before, sitting at around 180cm. He kept his breakdancer/martial artist lean muscles but developed a bit of shoulders.

-Clothes: Went full Arabic dressing and fabrics (once more, go check the fabrics, they are pieces of arts). I gave him floral motifs instead of his usual fire/snake motifs (though he does have a snake earring and a fangs necklace) to symbolise his rebirth/blooming. Like Leona, he has one piece of jewellery that is beadwork.

Vil

-Hair: Here it was a bit tricky. Considering Vil's work, he likely changes hairstyles a lot, going from long to short for his roles instead of his wants. So I leaned into the little things he could add to his hair despite their constant changes, mostly jewelleries, beadworks and wool decorations he stole from his husbands. He also cares a bit less about them looking perfect and is allowing himself to be more natural. He doesn't have any facial hair (yet), keeping a youthful appearance for as long as he can. In another ten years though, he might start looking more and more like his father, beard included.

-Clothes: For Leona and Jamil's mental states, the three of them most likely started living in Sunset Savanna so they wouldn't freeze to death. Vil is well traveled so he can handle most temperatures without trouble, and he is used to dressing up in the local get ups. Here I decided to give him both African dress and Arabic fabric, and likewise both beadwork and golden jewellery. I gave him crown and heart motifs so he can keep being himself despite borrowing a lot from his husbands.

There, I'm done rambling. Here's some doodles, followed by some random headcanons.

-Vil does his husbands hair every morning and keeps giving them more and more intricate hairstyles. He developed a whole haircare and beard-care products set for them.

-When Vil is away for a movie, Jamil keeps his hair mostly down save for a few accessories.

-Jamil and Falena get along surprisingly well (to Leona's despair). Vil gets along very well with Falena's wife.

-Jamil acts as a Scalding Sands ambassador and still is the one to care for Kalim when he comes to visit, though this time he's doing it because he wants to and not because he has to.

-Vil got used to his new title immediately but Jamil struggles with it a lot. He still has a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that he is no longer a servant.

-The servants at the palace love Jamil because he always makes their job easier.

-Leona finally decided to put his wits to good use and became Falena's advisor. He still fights a lot with Kifaji about the direction to take with the country, but he managed to make some of his ideas heard to help with the staggering inequalities in the country.

That's all for now!

#so... that's officially my longest piece to date #this one took me nearly 10 hours #and I'm considering doing a colored version because Arabic and Kenyan fabrics are so beautiful I swear #won't happen in a while tho #mello's drawings #n2 squad #jamil viper #leona kingscholar #vil schoenheit #javil #leojami #leovil #twisted wonderland #twst #art #my art #analysis #Future!N2

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norrisradio · 3 months ago

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SMALL TALK

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ “one night he wakes / strange look on his face / pauses, then says / “you’re my best friend” / and you knew what it was / he is in love” + “Morning, his place / burnt toast, Sunday / you keep his shirt / he keeps his word” - Taylor Swift, You Are In Love

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.7K ᝰ GENRE: strangers-to-friends-to-????, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and other disasters, oscar piastri is a man on a mission ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: my first time dabbling in some mixed media (feat. texts, voice notes, and facetimes)! not entirely happy with it but hopefully it makes sense // sorry for disappearing i am back now i swear ꨄ requested by @princesspiastri007 !

send me an ask for my line by line event .ᐟ

Oscar Piastri ruins your life in a bakery line on a Tuesday.

You’re clutching your paper cup like a lifeline, half-hypnotized by the scent of cardamom buns and the threadbare sweater slung over your frame — navy, elbow-patched, fraying at the seams. It was your dad’s. Maybe even his dad’s. Handed down like a secret. You only wear it on soft days. The kinds that ask for warmth and not much else.

Then someone knocks into you from behind, and the tea goes flying.

A sharp breath. The hiss of liquid on wool.

You freeze. He freezes.

“Shit — God, I’m so sorry.”

The voice is breathless and kind of pretty. You look up, prepared to launch into an eloquent string of swears, but the apology is already in his face. He looks young. Startled. Dimples carved into his cheeks like a question mark. A lanky frame, messy hair, and a voice that sounds like Sunday morning. And behind him, some tall blonde girl in sunglasses (who you’ll later learn is Hattie, his sister) gives a wince-laugh and says, “Nice one, Oz.”

You look down. The sweater is ruined.

“That’s not just a sweater,” you whisper, throat tight. And somehow, that matters more than yelling.

The stranger — Oscar, apparently — blinks. “Wait — wait, is it special? Oh God. Please let me fix it.”

That’s how it starts: a burnt-sugar Tuesday and a ruined heirloom.

He buys you another tea. Apologizes twenty-seven times. Offers you his hoodie while you shiver on the bakery bench. It smells like laundry detergent and something citrusy, like a life that doesn’t belong to you. When you say he doesn’t need to do anything else, he frowns like you’ve insulted him.

“No. I swear — I’ll find a way to replace it.”

You scoff. “What, are you gonna time travel to the '80s?”

He grins. “Not quite. But I travel a lot. I’ll find one like it. You’ll see.”

It’s a joke. You think it’s a joke.

Until he’s in Spain two weeks later, and you get a photo of a sweater from a vintage shop in Barcelona:

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image] from: +61 *** *** *** Closer? Still hunting.

Then he’s in Canada. Silverstone. Budapest. Portugal.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 1 Image - a blurry photo of a sweater, tagged €35 ] from: +61 *** *** *** Found a jumper in Lisbon. Not quite the right navy, but it has the elbow patches.

to: +61 *** *** *** you don’t have to keep doing this, yk

from: +61 *** *** *** I know. I want to.

Each time, a picture. A patch. A different shade of blue. An “Almost.”

You hadn’t expected it to become a thing.

You hadn’t expected him to become a thing.

But there’s a moment, three weeks later, when you're eating leftover curry on the floor of your apartment and your phone lights up with a voice memo. You hesitate. Press play.

Hey. I know it’s probably stupid but I found one in Tokyo today that kinda reminded me of the shape of yours. Didn’t get it though. The color was off. But I thought about you.

There’s a pause. You can hear wind. Traffic. And then:

Anyway. Just wanted to say hi.

You play it twice. Then a third time.

You don’t respond for an hour because you don’t know how to say, you’ve been living in my head since Tuesday.

The voice memos turn into calls. Almost by accident at first. One missed message becomes a call back, and before you know it, you’re dialing his number like muscle memory.

You start calling him after work, when the sky is the color of chamomile tea and the streets hum with the soft ache of winding down. He answers from hotel rooms, his voice low and warm, surrounded by the soft rustle of sheets or the faint murmur of unfamiliar cities outside his window. Sometimes you hear the buzz of neon. The clatter of luggage. The echo of a TV in the next room.

It becomes routine. Sacred, even. A ritual made of static and silence and shared space.

He listens when you talk about your family, about the sweater, about how you’ve always had trouble letting go of things that feel like home. Your voice goes soft when you tell him how your dad used to wear it on cold Sunday mornings, how it always smelled faintly of espresso and cedar. How you kept it on the back of your chair even after he passed.

There’s a pause.

And then: “That makes sense,” Oscar says, quiet enough that you almost miss it. “You feel... anchored. Even when everything else isn’t.”

You blink.

No one’s ever put it like that before.

You want to laugh. Or cry. Or tell him that he’s the first person in months who hasn’t made you feel like you’re too much. Too sentimental. Too attached to the past.

Instead, you murmur, “I like the sound of that.”

“Of what?”

“Being anchored.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his smile through the phone. That small, secret one you’ve learned to hear in the silence between words.

And when you hang up, well past midnight, your chest is full of something unfamiliar.

Melbourne - 00:42 / Sao Paulo - 11:42

Oscar’s face is sideways on your screen. He’s lying on a hotel bed, hair a mess, thumb under his cheek like he fell asleep on his own hand.

“I’ve seen twenty sweaters today,” he mumbles. “All of them were wrong.”

You smile, half-asleep yourself. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m determined.”

“Obsessed, maybe.”

He grins. “That too.”

There’s a long silence. Not awkward. Just full.

You whisper, “Why does it matter so much?”

He looks at you like he’s trying to read something written in a language only you speak.

“I think,” he says slowly, “because it mattered to you.”

Melbourne - 10:48 / Monza - 02:48

I found a vendor near the paddock today who hand-knits sweaters. Said she doesn’t repeat patterns but she can make something inspired by yours. I asked her how long it’d take. She said six months. I told her I’d wait.

There’s a long pause.

I don’t think this is about the sweater anymore.

The FaceTimes start to stretch longer. Past midnight. Into morning. Sometimes you wake up to a dead phone, his face still ghosting your dreams. He tells you what the gravel in Bahrain smells like. You tell him about your mother’s lasagna recipe. He starts sending you pictures of things that have nothing to do with sweaters.

The sea. His breakfast. A dog in the crowd with a bandana that says Team Oscar. His knees pressed up against the seat in a too-small plane.

You start recognizing hotel ceilings. The texture of his voice when he’s tired. The sound of his toothbrush.

You don’t talk about what it is. But you know.

You fall asleep with your phone tipped sideways, face half offscreen, mouth slack. Oscar snaps a screenshot once (you find it later in a photo dump he sends, sandwiched between two blurry shots of the Monza pitlane and one of a knitwear rack in Milan).

You’re in bed, face crinkled into your pillow.

from: +61 *** *** *** [Attachment: 4 Images] from: +61 *** *** *** I like this one best.

Melbourne - 03:23 / Abu Dhabi 21:23

from: +61 *** *** *** You awake?

You blink at the screen, the dim glow of your phone painting soft light across your face.

You shouldn’t be awake. You weren’t. Not really.

to: +61 *** *** *** only if you need me to be

from: +61 *** *** *** always.

You stare at it for a beat too long. Something in your chest tightens.

No FaceTime this time. Just voice. Just the warmth of him spilling through the speaker like something secret.

“Hi,” he says, a little breathless. Like he’d been pacing. Like he still is.

“You okay?” you ask, voice scratchy with sleep.

A silence. Not heavy. Just full.

Then: “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

Another pause, this one longer. Then he sighs, and it sounds like the beginning of a confession.

“I was at dinner. Team stuff. Everyone talking, laughing, and it was fine. It was good. But then I thought of something you said — about how your dad used to cut his toast diagonally, like it made it taste better.”

You laugh, soft. “Because it does.”

He smiles. You can hear it. But then his voice shifts. Warmer. Quieter.

“And I wanted to tell you. Just that. Just... share that moment with you. And I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to call. Even though it was nothing. Even though it was everything.”

Your fingers twist in the hem of your blanket. “Oscar-”

He exhales, quiet static against your cheek. “It just– it made me realize something.”

You hear him shift again, maybe run a hand through his hair. When he speaks next, his voice is quieter. Barely above a whisper.

“I think you’re my best friend.”

And the way he says it — it’s not casual. Not flippant. It lands somewhere low in your chest, blooming slow and steady.

You don’t answer right away.

Because the truth is, you already knew. You’d known for a while now, tucked in the space between time zones and half-laughed voicemails. In the way your day doesn’t feel finished until you’ve heard his voice.

Still, you make a soft sound into the receiver. “I know,” you say, because anything more might break it.

He breathes out a laugh. You can hear him relax, like he was bracing for something bigger.

“I should let you sleep.”

“You should.”

But neither of you hang up.

You don’t say anything else that night. Just let the silence stretch between you like soft thread, pulled taut. Your hand stays curled around the phone long after the call ends, thumb brushing the screen like it might still be warm from his voice.

And later, when you’re making toast in his kitchen for the first time and burn it so badly the alarm goes off, you both laugh like idiots, wheezing and barefoot.

You keep his hoodie. He lets you. You wear it when he’s gone. You send him a photo of it hanging beside the ruined sweater, like they’re twin relics of something that matters now.

He keeps his word.

He never finds the same sweater.

But somehow, you stop minding.

Oscar can’t look at a knit sweater without thinking of you, and maybe that’s the best kind of curse—a soft one, stitched with love, pulling him home.

#formula 1 #f1 #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #oscar piastri fanfiction #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri x yn #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #formula 1 x reader #oscar piastri writing #f1 imagine #formula 1 imagine #formula one imagine #⚡︎ race day #event -> line by line

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fayes-fics · 3 months ago

Text

Bright Star

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Yet again, your husband lures you to the billiards room of Bridgerton House in the early hours. Sequel to Sonnet #29.

Warnings: 18+, smut, minors dni, smoking (cigars), dom/sub dynamics, fingering, dirty talk, mild sensory deprivation (blindfold), smidge of spanking, exhibitionism, window sex, vaginal sex, unauthorised weaponisation of poetry.

Word count: 3.7k

Author note: Sequel to my very first fic and posted on its 3rd anniversary. Not necessary to have read it, but there are callbacks. Use of ‘my lord’ is part of their d/s play. Yes, I know the Keats poem he recites here, also the title of the fic, was not published until 1838; please forgive the artistic liberties taken. Beta read by the amazing @colettebronte. Enjoy! <3

“Must I always find you here, Mr Bridgerton?”

Your greeting is laden with faux grievance as you quietly close the door behind you.

Benedict’s chuckle is warm and laid back, his hazy hooded eyes tracking your barefooted movement toward him, his strong jaw accented by the only sconce still lit, off to his left. He is sat much as he was last time you found him here—feet planted far apart as he rests in a wingback chair, a tumbler of whiskey on a side table by his elbow. This time, a lit cigar is in his hand, tendrils of smoke curling above him into the darkness.

Another evening’s carousing at Bridgerton House with his brothers has run late. And yet again, he has out-drunk both, them likely skulked to their rooms worse for wear. Part of you thinks his staying behind is by design, practically luring you back into this billiards room in the small hours of the night.

“Are you hoping for a revisit, darling?”

His husky tone confirms your suspicions as you climb onto his lap. The wool of his trousers tickles your inner thighs as you settle, straddling him in just your gauzy cotton nightgown.

“Maybe…” you coquette, glancing briefly over to the billiards table.

As he raises the cigar to his quirked lips, you snatch it and take a drag for yourself. His brow arches at your insolence, but the flex of his quad muscles under you as the fragrant smoke fills your lungs tells you how much he approves. You exhale in a swirl, curling your tongue, staring him down with a glint of challenge. Eager for him to take you right here in this room, something about an encore so very alluring

“Do you know Anthony made me pay to have that table rebaised,” he murmurs, more than a hint of hubris laced through his words, a hand on your thigh dragging upwards, rucking your nightgown with it.

“Perhaps you should not have ruined me quite so thoroughly upon it, husband,” you cluck, raising a brow of your own.

There’s a flash of admiration in his eyes, even though his answering inflexion is casual: “Well, that is the crux of the dilemma, is it not, dear wife…..”

He plucks the cigar back from you, balancing it on an ornate pewter ashtray adjacent to his drink, the air heavy with its pungent earthiness as it continues burning. His other hand burrows under your hem, and without preamble, he slides two fingers into your slit, making you gasp loudly.

“... For I doubt any man could resist such a lush bounty as yours,” Benedict posits with a crooked, victorious smile, feeling just how aroused you are. “Least of all me.”

You grab the arms of the chair as he plays you like an instrument, fingers strumming expertly over your clit, your hips flexing, rocking yourself on his fingertips.

“That's it; ride my hand…” he incites lowly, leaning back with a prideful expression, so pleased at what he can wreak with just a few well-deployed words.

You pitch forward, hotly demanding a kiss. He obliges, opening you to his sensual onslaught, his tongue parrying with yours in a dance. His hand twists, his thumb pressing your pearl as his fingers hook into your channel, breaching your body, teasing that spot which makes you pliant, needy, moaning into his mouth as he greedily swallows your noises.

“So very concupiscent this evening. You would do anything I told you to right now, would you not?” He muses, burying his fingers deeper as if to punctuate his point.

You moan and bite your lip, nodding as you ride harder, that addictive shiver racing down your spine as the slick sounds of your arousal fill the air.

But then, his hand is gone, and you whimper at the all-too-sudden loss. He makes a show of raising those glistening fingers and sucking upon them. A light flicks on behind his hazy eyes, his pupils dilating rapidly, and his nostrils flaring; your taste ignites something. He releases his fingers in a wet pop to give you a brusque order.

“Stand up, my love.”

You scramble to obey, climbing out of his lap, on your feet before you realise it, facing him, your skin flushing warm at the rich timbre he employs.

“Undress for me.”

A command that you happily follow, crossing your arms and gathering your nightgown, quickly whipping it over your head and tossing it aside.

Now you stand before him, utterly naked, a tingle all over from sheer anticipation. His stare is almost predatory, his chest rising and falling more rapidly. His eyes rake over you covetously, lingering upon your nipples, pebbling in the slightly cool room - the fire only glowing with ashy embers now - then at the apex of your thighs. His tongue flicks out to trace his lower lip before he speaks anew.

“Loathed as I am to repeat myself, I am most certainly fighting the urge to bind you in my silks,” he declares, your mind flooding with the memory of him tying your hands with his cravat as you perched upon the nearby billiards table.

You offer your wrists forward for him to repeat that whim—an open invitation to play as you sometimes do. It has him snarling and jumping hungrily out of the chair, rounding upon you with athletic alacrity.

He stops so close you can feel his breath puffing onto your collarbone. You cannot help but gaze up at him as he looms over you, mesmerised by how he can so wholly inhabit a role when you ask it of him, one so opposite to his affable, tender nature. Even the contours of his face seem altered, more angular, in the low flickering candlelight.

“I shall not bind your wrists, but I shall employ my cravat elsewhere.” He pauses to cup your cheek tenderly, his middle fingers stretching up to lower your eyelids softly. “I rather want you blindfolded, my love.”

A fizz erupts in your belly, and you can't help but whisper: “Yes, please, my lord.”

The invocation of his play title is akin to lighting a touchpaper; suddenly, he is kissing you again. One of his arms bandies your waist to pull you flush into him, the brocade of his waistcoat rough on your skin as he plunders your mouth, all heat and teeth, almost biting in intensity. His other hand at his neck, discarding the jewelled pin that holds his cravat in place and rapidly unfurling the fabric.

He steps back, holding the cravat loosely between his two outheld hands, a tacit request for your approval. You merely smile and nod, turning your back to him so he may secure it around your face. The cornflower blue silk is luxuriously soft and smells of his cologne. He loops the fabric around your head one more time so your view is blotted out completely, his breath ghosting your nape as he ties a secure knot at the back of your head.

“Your other senses should be heightened…” he pronounces, appearing to circle you, the slight creak of the floorboards your guide. Indeed, robbed of your sight, everything else feels dialled up.

“Hearing…”

That word is exhaled right into your ear from behind, the proximity making you jump a fraction, his breath gusting through the tendrils of your hair. Indeed, you swear you can hear the ticking of the grandfather clock out in the hallway as he withdraws. A flutter under your ribs as you sense his renewed movement.

“Touch….”

You inhale sharply as his thumbnail hooks onto your left nipple, flicking up and dragging slowly down. You can tell he is cataloguing the way your skin erupts into goosebumps; just know there is a victorious quirk on his lips.

His other hand then cups your right breast and treats it with the same care. You moan gently and rock forward onto the balls of your feet, him plucking the swollen, darkened nubs between his dextrous fingertips. All too soon, though, the touch is gone, and you try not to pout. Swaying into the space he has just left.

It seems like an eternity on tenterhooks as he prowls around, so close you can smell him, his cologne, and feel the occasional waft of breeze where he passes, trying to modulate your breathing, your thighs rubbing together reflexively, seeking friction.

“Scent…”

Suddenly, your nostrils are filled with the peaty, smoky aroma of expensive scotch, assuming he has grabbed the glass to hold close to your face. You inhale deeply, cognisant of his desire for you to indulge in each sense.

“And finally, taste….”

That last word is like velvet as he gently tilts your chin up, a drop of liquid falling onto your cupid's bow. You open reflexively to swipe it with your tongue - only for his wet fingers to hook over your bottom teeth. It appears he did not use the glass after all; just soaked his fingers.

On instinct, you close around them and suck, an intentional provocation that has a strangled noise catch in his throat. He tastes of the liquor but also traces of the ashy tang of charcoal and your own arousal from when he teased you before. Your eyelashes flutter against the softness of his cravat as you suckle harder, as if it were his cock, hollowing your cheeks and pulling his fingers deeper so the tips brush the roof of your mouth, lathing with your tongue.

“You utter vixen,” he growls, wholly commendatory, always pleased when you instinctively follow your desires without shame. And your desire for him appears boundless, infinite.

You chase after his hand as it withdraws, a touch petulant at his continuous tease. But this is what he does so well: keeping your desire simmering for what can seem like an eternity until you are almost mindless.

“What will you do next?”

You do not even realise you have vocalised your thoughts until you hear his amused noise.

“‘Tis a good question,” he concedes, as you sense him circling you again, feeling the weight of his stare on your bare flesh.

And again, you find yourself fidgeting, craving to sate the insistent throb between your legs.

“Stay still…” he warns in a seductive rumble, a quelling hand landing on your lumbar spine, seeming to span across your whole back.

“I desire you too much, my lord,” you appeal brazenly.

“I know you do, my sweet girl….” He burrows his nose into your hair, that hand sliding down to the globe of your left bottom cheek. “...That is what makes this all the more delectable for me.”

He lightly spanks you, a gentle slap that makes you sway back into him.

“More… please…” you appeal sotto voce, twisting over your shoulder, the instinct ingrained to seek his gaze even though you are unable to see him.

He taps your other cheek, an amused huff at how responsive you are to it.

“My lord…” you whine, arching your back to accentuate your bottom, begging for his hand.

Strong arms band around to pull you back flush to him. The ruffles of his shirt tease your shoulder blades; he must have shucked his waistcoat. He kisses down the column of your throat as his hands map your contours—one burying between your legs, the other wrapping loosely around your jaw, tipping your head back so you feel his lips on the shell of your ear through the delicate fabric.

“I do so love to watch you in heat for me,” he murmurs approvingly as you begin to ride his fingers a second time, needing more, so much more; this renewed tease has you all the more overwrought.

Your hands loop around the sinewy mass of his forearms, pleading with the curl of your fingers for him to take you. Pressing your hips backwards, mashing your pelvis to his, intent clear, elated by the hardness you feel there.

He growls lightly as you chafe his cock between your buttocks, rising onto your tiptoes and sinking back down, riding his fingers, rubbing yourself all over him akin to a cat in heat. And he lets you. Seems to revel in it based on the little huffs he makes, meeting your thrusts with a tilt of his hips as he frottages himself into your skin, likely turning a shade darker with the wool friction over your cheeks.

“Say you are mine,” he pleads hotly into your neck, his lips plush on your pulse point,

“I am yours, Benedict, my lord, my love, my husband,” you vow earnestly, calling him every epithet that comes to you, still squirming on his touch.”Always.”

With a low growl, he pulls off his shirt and flings it aside. Suddenly he is walking you forward, his smooth chest pressed into your back, propelling you across the room, skirting around the billiards table.

“Last time we were here, I seem to recall you being aroused by the idea of an audience of my brothers…”

You blush at the memory. But then, you really would do anything for him when he is like this. Under his thrall in a way that makes you reckless and wanton.

“Only if you wish it, my lord,” you demure, your toes gliding over the smooth, polished wood floor as he manhandles you a few more paces forward.

“Such a dilemma,” he sighs, as you feel a sudden coolness envelope your torso that can only be from proximity to glass. “For I do not ever wish to share you, but I do so want you to be watched...”

You inhale sharply as he tilts you forward, your cheekbone and nipples rasped by lace net curtains, then pressed into the cold window pane.

“My lord, we might be seen…” It’s barely a whisper.

There is a flutter in your gut as you realise that is precisely what he wants: for you to be seen, utterly naked and blindfolded, coveting him in a way polite society would deem uncivilised.

“I know,” he chimes, his breath hot on your temple.

There’s a world of meaning behind his tone; you can sense the smirk on his handsome face. Grateful your eyes are covered, the thrill enhanced by not knowing. The voiles likely provide partial obscurity; passersby may see bodies but may not be able to determine exactly whom.

A rush of blood pulses in your clit as you sense him fighting with the buttons of his trousers, the back of his wrists brushing your bottom. Without prompting, you place your hands on the window high above your head, fingertips curling into the delicate lace, readying yourself for him to slide into you roughly as you so desperately want him to do.

“Good girl.”

A moan escapes your lips, and a trickle of moisture trails down your inner thigh, a reflexive response to his velvet compliment, the solid mass of him against your bum unmistakable. You sense him hunch down a little, and you cry out as, indeed, he spears into you, hauling you upright onto tiptoes as he straightens his legs. Every time, the intense stretch and heat of him opening you up steals your breath—every single time.

He stutters delightfully, motionless and sheathed within you, burying his face in your hair, exhaling a hot gust into your scalp. His hands are seemingly everywhere on your body before settling on the flare of your hips, pressing you down further onto him.

“I can see your reflection, my beautiful girl,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek below the line of his cravat tied over your face.

Slowly, he withdraws, then snaps his hips, furrowing deeper into you, making you groan and slump further into the window, ceding to his control.

“What else do you see, my lord?” you inquire, needing his voice as much as his touch.

“The night sky, resplendent with stars,” he answers languidly, sliding out and back in.

Even without your sight, you are aware of something in his demeanour shifting, even as he begins a leisurely pace, pushing you up onto tiptoes with every thrust.

“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art… he begins in a lyrical cadence.

The line seems familiar, but your mind is jumbled, recall fuzzy from the pleasure courses through your veins.

“Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night…. ”

His resonant voice seems to coil all around you, vibrating from his chest into your back. Each syllable settles over your flushed skin, seeping into your bones. He surges into you, your body rolling like a wave, the soft silk of his cravat snagging gently on your brows, your lips parched, yearning for his soft, damp kisses. You turn your head and nuzzle into his slightly stubbled jaw, seeking his mouth. He obliges, kissing you in sync with his thrusts, the following line of poetry dancing over your tongue.

“And watching, with eternal lids apart….” he chuckles at the irony of you being unable to see, your eyelids fluttering against his cravat. “Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite….”

“What is this poem, my lord?” you interject, curiosity getting the better of you. “I know it cannot be Byron,” you append cheekily.

He laughs heartily, which you feel inside as he stills. “Indeed it is not, my beautiful, bright star…” he offers, hinting obliquely.

Your brain rattles. Knowing you have read it. Indeed you believe he has recited it aloud at a dinner party held with friends at your country home.

“Keats?” you guess.

“My clever girl,” he lauds as you push your hips back into him, urging him to restart his thrusts.

Grabbing his left hand, you bring those whiskey-flavoured fingers back into your mouth, suckling. Even without sight, you know his gaze is on your lips, wrapped plumply around his knuckles.

“I quite forgot where I was; you distract me so,” he chides affectionately, his wedding ring clicking into the ivory of your teeth as you lathe your tongue between each digit.

“I recall there being something about moving waters around human shores,” he teases, punctuating his lilting with a well-timed thrust into your soaked channel. “And a soft fallen mask,” he adds as you suckle upon him, his nose tracing the line of your blindfold.

“You know all the words well,” you contend, releasing his fingers.

“Indeed I might,” he concedes, “but I may skip a few lines….”

His touch sweeps down to cup your breast in sizeable hands, squeezing softly.

“Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast…..”

“To feel forever its soft fall and swell….” The words seem filled with yearning but also so adroit to how he is pulling you along in a tide of passion. “Awake forever in a sweet unrest,”

He tweaks your nipples puckered from the cool glass they have been pressed into as he speeds up a little. A tinge of frantic to his panted words now. He cups your jaw and leans in so your lips brush the shell of his ear, his soft curls of hair tickling your forehead.

“Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath…”

He chooses that moment to slide his other hand between your legs, middle finger swiping your throbbing clit, making your breath hitch harshly.

“I veritably live for that sound,” he confesses over a groan, breaking from the poem, spiralling you higher as his movements speed up, chasing the high you are both so close to.

He tugs the cravat loose from your eyes; it flutters to a loop around your neck. You blink even though the light is feeble from the one sconce across the room.

Benedict twists so your mouths meet, one hand buried between your legs, the other sweeping up to your throat, holding onto the cravat almost as leverage as he takes ever more piercing thrusts, your pussy clinging to his onslaught, rippling as your peak rushes towards you.

“And so live ever—or else swoon to death.”

That last line, panted into your mouth, is when he breaks. A shudder wracking his whole frame, then he stills, the feel of him spurting deep, pushing you over the edge, too. He swallows your cries as you clench around him, every muscle tensing and releasing, your whole body a wildfire.

You slump bodily into the window, its frame creaking as it takes your weight and his, crushed into your back as he heaves breaths. The cold glass is a balm to your flushed, dewy skin, your legs twitchy and leaden with the exertion of withstanding his passions. Benedict wraps you in his arms and pulls you to the ground, curling around you in an embrace as you recover.

—

“Did you lure me down here just to have your wicked way with me again?” You quip lazily, basking in the afterglow, burrowing deeper into his comforting embrace.

“And what if I did, dear wife? Had you not noticed, our rooms here back onto Anthony’s. I thought it prudent not to raise his ire with our amorous activities so soon. I concede; I did also make doubly certain he was not in his office next door,” he concludes dryly.

“Wise,” you reply with a giggle, tilting your head to exchange sated smiles. “And he will no doubt be pleased his billiards table survived this time.”

At that, Benedict laughs heartily, his chest jostling yours as he looks upon you with a rekindled flame dancing in his hazy eyes.

“Is that a challenge, darling? Because I could be ready for you once more, should you wish it. I have more than the necessary funds to repay my brother. I just sold that landscape of Somerset.”

“You did?!? Benedict, that is wonderful!” You effuse, lighting up with pride, pulling his face to meet yours in a celebratory kiss, which rapidly turns heated, tongues tangling.

“Let us put that money to good use,” he asserts raggedly as you break apart.

You peal with delight as he stands up, hauling you into his arms and strides purposefully towards the billiards table with that trademark troublesome, lopsided grin….

… Which still seems to be in place the following day when he wordlessly hands a confused Anthony a wad of notes with a shrug and a surreptitious wink over to you. You have to stifle your giggle behind your gloved hand.

masterlist • wips • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @hanji-emo-blog @sya-skies @urfavnoirette @mmontgomeryb

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

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